


From River to Ice

by Solrosfalt



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: (no explicit sexual content), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Shenanigans with a Happy Ending, Blackmail, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Content warnings:, Developing Relationship, F/F, Kidnapping, M/M, Minor Injuries, Minor NPC deaths, Minor Surgery, canon-typical mentions of prostitution, near-drowning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:28:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29838117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solrosfalt/pseuds/Solrosfalt
Summary: “Having a run-in with an apothecary is somethin' I wanted as well. Me and my tea leaves, we tend to get roughed up. We need someone to… undo that sort of thing.”“I believe there are a few traveling apothecaries that can offer you their services,” Zeph said politely. “I might be able to recommend them for you.”“Why’s that, lil’ fella? You’re one of them apothecaries, and you’re right here. Ain’t that right?”---Two Apothecaries live their peaceful lives downriver, unknowing of the betrayal happening far upstream, but that betrayal changes their lives nonetheless. Zeph is taken away against his will, and his friend must cooperate with a prickly thief to get him back. The journey is long, however, and there are plenty of people to meet along the way.Alternative clickbait title:Six Biromantics Must Work Together, What Happens Next Will Warm Your Heart
Relationships: Alfyn Greengrass/Therion, Mercedes/Zeph (Octopath Traveler), Primrose Azelhart/H'aanit
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There are probably a dozen other fics like this one, but this idea wouldn't leave me alone so here goes. The main divergencies in this story will be that Therion ran Northreach alongside Darius for years, and Darius’ betrayal is thus made far later than in canon and the story unfolds with that in mind. Additionally, Mercedes and Zeph are already in an established long-distance relationship (good for them). Some minor divergencies will be that the entire Octopath Squad won’t meet, so there’s that. It hurts to split them up, but I wanted this to *not* be 250k this time-
> 
> I have another longfic with the entire squad established and together in "A Wide World, A Soft Tune", and I have some shorter Primrose/H’aanit stuff because hey, I love them—but this time, the focus will be on Alfyn and Therion, so let’s get right into that, shall we!

A book thudded to the floor. Zeph never saw it happen, but he’d heard that sound enough times to know.

To think that he’d barely gone out the front door before something caused him to open it and peek back inside; but then again, this was a normal occurrence. Zeph shared his home with his little sister and his best friend. Both of them tended to drop things.

It was his sister, this time. Nina stood along one of the walls with brightly colored cheeks, one book in her arms and another sprawled on the floor.

Nina was a curious child, and whatever Zeph or Alfyn did, she tried to emulate. Considering how much time Zeph spent with a book in his lap, it was no wonder that she read, too. It was a good habit he wanted to encourage, so Zeph smiled at her, faltering only so slightly when he saw which one she’d dropped.

“Sorry,” Nina said, and carefully lifted the poor manhandled book back on the shelf. With her small statue, it was no easy feat, and she huffed to make a point of this, but even so, she hurdled it back on the shelf with a grunt.

“There,” she panted. “You saw nothing!”

“I sure didn’t,” Zeph answered, still smiling at her. Nina had recently turned twelve. Her independence was growing by the month, but to him, she was still a little kid, and he couldn’t help playing along with her.

He _was_ however, also the one responsible for raising her (sure, Alfyn was a good role model, but more like in a fun uncle sort of way), so while he kept smiling, he gave her a kind but stern nod.

“It’s okay, you _can_ borrow that,” he continued. “But be careful! It’s from Mercedes.”

Nina smiled mischievously at him and pulled the book back down.

“Mercee-edes,” she imitated in a lovey-dovey voice, then gently patted the book's leathers, backing down from teasing him about his crush now that he was being nice. “Don’t worry though! Won’t be a scratch on it!”

“Or dirt,” Zeph pointed out, knowing that his sister took after their family’s interest in herb lore and always had her hands grimed with mud.

“Or diiirt,” she imitated again with a sigh, putting the books down on the counter. “Okay, okay! Just leave already!”

Zeph shrugged and closed the door.

The wind caught in the sunflowers, their leaves rustling against his leg as he stepped down from the porch.

Just like every other day, he crossed the stone bridge that had held out since before even his grandfather had been born. He looked out over the woods beyond that were even older, and he breathed it all in. There were no other ways he’d rather start his day. Further down the road, Magg was balancing a whole stash of bread in her arms, too stubborn to walk her round of the village more than once. Zeph waved at her, and she grunted in response.

“Careful with your knee,” Zeph greeted, to which she only grunted again.

He chuckled to himself. He’d probably mention this along with every other small-town thing in his letters to Mercedes. She liked hearing that everything was as usual for him, liked knowing that Clearbrook never changed. She missed the life in a small village, at least she said so again and again in her letters.

‘ _So come visit!_ ’ Zeph had written more than once. And she’d promised she would, soon. She was obviously busy with her scholarly studies, and Zeph was fine with that, but he missed her all the same. Missed the way she laughed, missed how her eyes glinted with excitement when she spoke of her interests.

A pheasant let out a cry from the edge of the woods, and Zeph was tempted to go find it—pheasant feathers made for good elixir bases, after all—but he was not the one collecting ingredients today. Alfyn had been out gathering since early morning, and Zeph had promised to make the rounds for Alfyn’s patients too. Lily’s grandfather’s cough, the angler’s infected thumb… Zeph knew enough about them to get by.

It wasn’t like this village actually _needed_ two apothecaries, but Zeph wouldn’t leave Nina, and Alfyn wouldn’t leave Zeph, and so time went on with the two of them still in Clearbrook.

Zeph didn’t mind. He liked things this way.

\---

It was close to midday when Zeph returned to his home, empty satchel and slightly aching back. He walked around the counter, stretching his arms and refilling the satchel with the bottles and herbs he’d need for an eventual emergency run.

Their home was little more than a single room filled to the brim with concoctions and empty flasks and bags of herbs. Books lined the shelves along with scissors and knives. It was cluttered, to say the least, but at least Zeph knew where to find things (and Alfyn hardly complained about anything, let alone a messy home).

Nina peeked out from beneath the counter’s corner, Mercedes’ book still in her lap. That was her favorite spot for pressing flowers, and roots and petals surrounded her on the floor. The book was still in fine condition though, so he only smiled at her.

He should probably start cooking something, but he lingered with the tinctures and medicines, enjoying Nina’s company in silence. A shadow moved beneath the crack of the door, but Zeph didn’t react. It was probably Alfyn returning, his satchel full of fresh herbs and berries and bark ready to be processed. If he were this early, Zeph could indulge his time in making pancakes—it’d been a while since he’d had the time. He was already contemplating which jar of jam he’d crack open, looking up to call out to Alfyn and ask what he’d prefer.

But when the door opened, it was not one person that walked inside, but five.

The leading one was tall, with red hair tied to the back of his head and a matching set of green cloak and boots. He looked rich enough to be noble, but Zeph had seen one or two nobles in his days and they never sported scars such as his. This man had also clearly been journeying in something other than a carriage, judging by the dirt on his clothes.

What such people would enter a simple village apothecary, Zeph couldn’t figure out, but Alfyn would not have judged them. Zeph wouldn’t either. He nodded at the visitors and slid into his most good-mannered voice.

“What brings you here, travelers?”

There were a number of reasons people usually came by unannounced, but none of them added up for Zeph when he watched them.

Their traveling company might be running low on healing supplies, but there was a Provisioner just down the street that offered the usual Soothgrape concoctions that Zeph and Alfyn created for them. There really wasn’t any need for coming _here_ , especially since none of the strangers seemed injured enough for seeking him out.

“Ah see I’ve been having a look around for a thing I dropped,” the leading stranger answered. “Dropped it from _very_ high up. Suppose it got in the river.”

Instincts told Zeph he should leave. The air in the room pressed at his temples, the way the five strangers let their gazes wander over the room as though appraising everything gave him a sense of creeping dread he couldn’t shake.

Oh, goodness, he’d forget about not judging. They were crooks, brigands. They had to be.

Even so, Zeph stayed behind the counter. Maybe he could release a bottle of blinding dust and vault over and dash out the door before the strangers reacted, but Nina wouldn’t make it. Leaving her behind wasn’t an option.

The best option, Zeph decided, was giving whatever these men wanted in a calm and civilized manner. If he had to part with something, so be it; he couldn’t let them hurt Nina.

He met the leading stranger’s gaze, did not shrink or show how much this frightened him. “Is there anything you need my assistance for?”

“Nah,” the stranger said. “Mostly came to check if the thing I dropped is alive or not.”

By _thing_ , this man was clearly not actually referring to something inanimate, but the casual way he spoke about it had Zeph hold his tongue from asking more. In the corner of his vision, he could see Nina’s terrified gaze peek out from beneath the counter.

 _Don’t look at her_ , he reminded himself. _Pretend you’re alone._ Zeph tried to breathe normally, could only hope that Nina wouldn’t get herself involved.

The stranger walked closer, plucking a flask from the counter. It was larger than his palm, but still looked fragile in his hand as he inspected it with a lazy smile.

“Didn’t find the thing,” he continued with a shrug. “But walking to this backwater town wasn’t such a bad idea, hey? Having a run-in with an apothecary is something I desired as well. Me and my tea leaves, we tend to get roughed up. We need someone to… undo that sort of thing.”

“I believe there are a few traveling apothecaries that can offer you their services,” Zeph said politely. “I might be able to recommend them for you.”

“Why’s that, lil’ fella? _You’re_ one of them apothecaries, and you’re right here. Ain’t that right?”

Zeph’s pulse echoed in his head, his mind devoid of thoughts and instead filled with dread, no longer creeping kind—it was digging its claws right into his heart.

“I am not available for travels,” he said. Slowly, pointedly. “I will have to decline. My loyalty is to this village.”

The stranger put the flask down, rested his hand on his dagger and flashed a wide grin.

“Oh no, see. I ain’t _asking_.”


	2. Chapter 2

When the midday sun filtered through the trees, Alfyn realized it was high time to return home.

He knew the woods outside Clearbrook like the back of his hand and did not need to put his mind to finding his way. He hummed as he went, inspecting the quality of the nestleweeds and breamleaves that rustled against his cheek, plucked and placed some in his satchel, without slowing down.

He reached the outskirts of Clearbrook’s farmlands within a quarter’s sun-span. A startled pheasant shed a feather or two when he rustled out of the tightly brown bushes, and he let out a pleased ‘ _oh hey, thanks_ ’ as he bent down to pick it off the ground.

Collecting was something Alfyn could do in his sleep, but it was much too important to neglect like that—when working with something so volatile as medicine and as unpredictable as patients, he needed his full attention. Good thing he was always willing to give it.

Small birds chirped between the branches of a nearby hazel and sunlight welcomed him as he stepped onto the slim path leading through the wheat fields, one of Magg’s plump cats trudging along the wooden fence beside him. A gentle wind brought the smell of sun-warmed pines, and Alfyn drew a deep breath through his nose.

All seasons had something good to give, but summer was a tough one to beat for an apothecary. Everywhere one turned there were ingredients to fill his pouch, and all he needed to wear was his linen shirt and rolled-up pants (and perhaps his coat too, for protection against ravenous and merciless gnats). Overall, life was a breeze; if he never stopped to consider how the outside pulled at him to walk further, to see what was outside the woods, beyond Saintsbridge, outside the _Riverlands_ even.

Warmth and freedom pulled at explorer's hearts, and that was the way of things—Alfyn had no need to entertain it. This village was his place, for a few years more, at least.

He closed in on Clearbrook, his boots kicking up dust as he hummed, chewing on a straw of wizard’s foxtail. He spotted movement down the road, the familiar view of Magg on her way to walk flour over to the old sheep farmer, Gesard.

“Hey Alfyn,” Magg grunted at him. “Zeph passed by an’ gave me a message. He was going with some rough-looking fellas. He didn’t say why, but I’m guessin’ they wanted him for some urgent apothecary business outta town. They had horses, and all.”

“Huh,” Alfyn said. “Well, what’s the message then?”

“ _Tell Alfyn to take care of Nina_ , is what he said.”

“Oh yeah, sure will. Did he say for how long he’d be gone?”

“Not that I recall,” Magg huffed, then continued down the road.

Alfyn just shrugged. It wasn’t that rare for Zeph or him to be called out of town, happened a few times a year. With summer, there was a natural reason for more traveling and a huge influx of injuries to be healed.

A thought that pulled at his explorer’s heart again. The world was vast, with plenty of different disease panoramas, and outside of home the stakes just seemed _higher_ than in Clearbrook. It was a great feeling to reach out and help where a kind hand could do all the difference. Like the hand that had saved Alfyn once, when he himself was nothing but a boy.

One day, when Nina was grown up and could fend for herself, Alfyn would talk to Zeph about going out there. Be a traveling apothecary, reach out to those who needed it, to lessen the suffering of the dying, save the lives of those who could be saved.

One could argue that was exactly what Alfyn was doing right here in Clearbrook, but there were other villagers in the world that had none, while Clearbrook had two, almost _three_ , apothecaries. It didn’t feel like much some days, but that no chaos ensued when either of them were called out of town was proof enough that one apothecary was enough.

A string of shouts broke into the serene scene before him, bringing Alfyn back to the present. By the looks of it, there was a commotion down by the fishing dock.

Alfyn took the straw of grass out of his mouth and threw it to the side, stretching his neck to get a good look. Sometimes the fishermen got noisy whenever there was a big catch in their nets, but this sounded different. Alfred, the youngest of the fishing lot, was bent over the river, his nets still in the water. He struggled to pull something heavy up onto the dock. It didn’t look like a fish—and Alfred clearly agreed, turning his head toward the road and yelling at the top of his lungs.

“Oi! We need help! There’s a fella in the water! A live ‘un!”

The last distinction was necessary—not to Alfyn, who was already running at the word ‘ _help_ ’—because it wasn’t uncommon that unfortunate Cliftlands souls that had taken a wrong step up on the winding roads and hit the river washed up here where the streams got milder. They were rarely, if ever, alive.

This one was. It was a small man, grey in the face and with scars running down his throat, slack in Alfred’s arms—but he did not look like someone who had been dead in the water for long.

“Alfyn,” Alfred said breathlessly. “Whadda we do?”

“Put him down. On his back.” Alfyn unloaded his satchel and knelt beside the unmoving man, tilted his head back and forced air down his mouth. He felt the resistance of water against his breath, kept pressing. He’d only done this once before, and it’d failed, but there was nothing to lose—the drowned needed air, that was the top priority.

Five times Alfyn breathed for the man. Water had begun to foam up against him, and the man gargled like he attempted to cough. Alfyn tipped him over to the side, and with an ungodly cough, the drowned stranger managed to spit out half a river and wheeze a few breaths.

“Good man,” Alfyn said in a calm voice, stroking his back with a robust force to stimulate some more breaths. “I was just about to start compressing your chest, let’s see if we can skip that, eh?”

The man only coughed again, then breathed deeply, hungrily. His eyelids fluttered. He didn’t speak, but he seemed stable enough lying on the side, so Alfyn let him be, with a watchful hand on his pulse.

“How long was he under?” he asked, looking up at Alfred. The boy didn’t answer, busy helping his father out of the water.

“A minute, tops,” Alfred’s father answered, soaking wet with his angler’s hat drooping over his face. “Saw him struggle to reach shore—looks like he was holding on to something, dunno what. Cliftlands wood is pretty floaty, makes good boats, reckon it was something like that. Guess he tried to let go, fight the calmer streams an’ get to shore, but he didn’t look like he knew how to swim, poor lad. I called out to him as he let go of his float and splashed over to us, and then he just sank. I dived in right after. Think he’ll be all right, doc?”

Alfyn leaned over the man, whose face was a lot less grey, and whose eyes had opened and glared up at him.

“Too early to say,” Alfyn answered and drew his knife. The man on the docks was aware enough to notice, and his eyes widened, but he couldn’t move.

“Gotta get the wet clothes off,” Alfyn explained to him. “They cool you down, which might kill ya if the drowning doesn’t. Oi, Alfred, fetch me a blanket from home, will ya?”

The man struggled a little as Alfyn cut his clothes, which was nothing but a good sign.

“I’m sorry, all right?” Alfyn smiled at him. “It’s them or your life, man.”

The man wheezed, not calming down much. He didn't stop fussing until a blanket was wrapped over him, when he yielded to the warmth.

“Thanks, fellas,” Alfyn said to Alfred and his father. “You lot saved his life, probably.”

“Nah, just pulled him in. You did the life-savin’ part,” Alfred’s father answered, but he looked pleased with himself regardless.

“I’ll do my best to keep that up, okay fella?” Alfyn patted the blanket gently, then scooped the stranger up in his arms with one last word to Alfred’s father. “If ya find any clues to his family or something, come knocking at my door! I’ll bring him home for now. He needs surveillance, an’ all that.”

The blanket bundle mumbled something inaudible, and Alfyn glanced down on him. Moving someone like him was a risk, but he’d _definitely_ die if Alfyn just left him there on the docks, so this was all he could do.

So with a final nod and smile toward Alfred and his father, he left the riverbank and continued toward the cottage with a pale grass roof that was his and Zeph’s home. The wind rustled in the trees and the sun warmed his face, like nothing was out of the ordinary at all, but it wasn’t every day Alfyn carried a grown man in his arms.

He got the door open and pried it up with his foot, then lifted his chin about to announce his arrival. He didn’t even get the chance to draw a breath before something shot across the room like a rabbit.

“Alfyn!”

Nina gave him a stumble as she hit right into him and hooked him in her arms. He nearly dropped his patient.

“Nina?” Alfyn held on tighter to the complaining bundle in his arms. “What’s the rush?”

She had her backpack slung over her shoulder. She jokingly called it her _apothecary satchel_ , used it for collecting and playing games with the neighbouring girl, but there was nothing joyous or playful in her face now. When he glanced into the house, books and maps were spread out across the counter and there were cheese and breadcrumbs all over the table like Nina had prepared a whole pile of sandwiches.

“They took him! There were a bunch of men in here, and they took Zeph!”

Alfyn frowned. “ _Took_ him? How d’ya mean?”

Nina let out something incomprehensible and clenched her fists. “They just—they just told him to come!”

“All right,” Alfyn nodded. “They needed him for something, huh. Magg told me, but she didn’t know when he’d be back. Did he tell you?”

Nina shrieked with unease, letting tears spring to her eyes without bothering to be embarrassed about them (a sure sign that something was wrong).

“They had _knives_ ,” Nina yelled. “They had knives, Alfyn! We have to go after them!”

“Hold it,” Alfyn said. “We can’t just run after anyone without knowin’ who they are, or where they went.”

“I—I never saw their faces!” Nina waved her hands impatiently. “But ask anyone in the village, they have to have seen! Now let’s _go_!” Nina grabbed the hem of his tunic, her other hand on the door.

And Alfyn saw just how worried she was, which almost made him uneasy. No one would call Alfyn the worrying type, but this was clearly something other than a game. He’d never seen Nina like this.

But where would Alfyn run to? Magg had said that the ones that Zeph went with had horses, which meant that catching up with them on foot would be impossible, especially when he didn’t know which direction they went. Clearbrook bordered the Cliftlands, but it also wasn’t far away from the desert, and Saintsbridge was just down south…

Besides, if he just took up and ran somewhere, the man in his arms would most definitely die.

Nina was still pulling at his clothes, angrily, letting out wordless huffs that sounded like held-back sobs. She must’ve understood that he wouldn’t move, but she wasn’t giving up. Not even when Alfyn began to walk toward their beds in the corner did she let go.

“Alfyn,” she whimpered. “Alfyn, stop, we have to leave—!”

Alfyn put the man down on the bed, checked once again that he was breathing before he glanced down at Nina.

“We have a patient, Nina. I can’t.”

Her eyes widened in horror. Then she tackled him. When he didn’t budge, she tackled him again.

“It’s _Zeph,_ ” she shrieked. “It’s… Zeph! Don’t you care?”

Alfyn knelt down. When she tackled into him again, he caught her arms, looking her right in the eye. He’d met with both children and adults in deep shock. He knew that words wouldn’t amount to much. Holding on and staying level with them was the only thing to do.

Nina halted and stared back at him. With hope at first, but she must have seen something in his face, because that hope shattered, laying bare a terrified, broken heart.

“…Don’t you care?” she asked, more softly.

“Nina…” Alfyn kept his voice level, squeezing her arms. “I see that this distresses you. I do care. But there is a dying man right here, and even if I leave, I don’t see what I can do.”

Nina opened her mouth, then tried to tear free of him. “Something! Chop them with your axe! Punch their guts! You can’t just sit here and be scared. I’ve prepared stuff for us to take with us!”

Alfyn said nothing, and Nina breathed hard for a moment, before glaring at him.

“My brother would come running after those guys if it was _you_ who were taken away!”

Okay, that was a bit of a punch to the chest, but Alfyn did not yield his gaze. Even as his mind was pressed down by a stream of emotions, the years of facing distress from both living and dying had trained him to keep his head cool. He’d have to think this through.

“I don’t think he would, Nina. Zeph would be smarter than that. Five guys with knives sounds like more than me and my ol’ amputation axe could handle.”

“What if they stabbed him?” Nina blurted, still keen to fight his reasoning. “What if he’s bleeding out in a ditch somewhere?”

That thought was not a happy one, but Alfyn wouldn’t budge. “Did it seem like they’d do that to you?”

Nina stared at her feet. Her pulse still bobbed at the side of her throat, and angry tears remained in her eyes, but she didn’t try to tackle him or tear free.

“They needed an apothecary,” she mumbled. “…So maybe… maybe not. They said they wouldn’t hurt him if he came without fuss. But still! We don’t—”

Alfyn let go and rested his hand on his knee, listened as Nina trailed off. He gave her his best reasonable tone.

“Zeph is smart, right? He wouldn’t get himself hurt. I think chances are greater of him getting out of there on his own than if we run after him without a plan. We’ll make sure to tell someone to do some tracking, maybe follow the hooves and hopefully see something, but before we do, we need to make sure our man here is stable. Okay?”

“Okay,” Nina nodded, her fists clenched. “But promise we will find them! The mean man and his stupid _tea leaves_ or whatever! That’s the dumbest name for a bunch of bandits! I hate them!”

“Tea leaves,” their patient wheezed, his eyelids fluttering as he mumbled something incomprehensible, then ended with a low, muttering _‘…fuck_ ’.

Nina frowned deeply, then darted to the side of the bed, leaning over the man’s face with an intense frown.

“Hey! You _know_ them, don’t you?” When he didn’t answer, Nina leaned even closer, and asked more softly: “Are you the thing they threw in the river?”

Their patient let out a hoarse sound and jabbed a palm at her, trying to push her away, but it was not he who succeeded. It was Alfyn, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“Nina,” he said, as seriously as he could muster while still giving her a small smile to diffuse the whole thing. “Don’t pester the man. Right now, he’s our patient, and we need to make sure he gets better. Now—what do you give to stimulate breathing?”

Nina switched from sullen to focused for a few moments, before she nodded and reached for two flasks on the counter. It was the same medicines that Alfyn gave Lily’s grandfather, since he stubbornly kept smoking his pipe despite his many breathing struggles.

“Right on,” Alfyn smiled at her and took the flasks.

“We’ll get him better,” Nina said determinedly, still with her backpack over her shoulder. “Then he’ll help us find Zeph.”

Alfyn nodded. Nina’s mind darted as quickly as her feet, he knew that, and even without understanding the full situation, she might be on to something.

The man on the bed looked thin and ragged, his hair white as snow at the tips that had begun to dry, his chest moving with wheezing and exhausted breaths. Aside from the frighteningly prominent scars, he didn’t _look_ like a bandit—but then again, Alfyn had not seen many of those.

If this man was a bandit, and he’d been healthy, he might’ve been among those who’d taken Zeph. It was a strange thought.

Well, it didn’t matter who he was. He was sick and needed treating, and Alfyn was an apothecary. If anyone needed his help, he’d do what he could—it was as simple as that. And if it turned out that his patient could and wanted to help out in return, that’d just be a bonus.


	3. Chapter 3

Therion’s mind felt like mashed potatoes. Aching and pulsating mashed potatoes.

His chest felt worse, though. When he was fifteen, he had gotten half a mug of mead into the wrong pipe, and he’d coughed for days after and felt like his throat was on fire—a comfortable experience in comparison.

But either through dumb luck or sheer spite, he was alive. He’d survived the river.

 _The river_. Gods, he hated the thought of it, hated the fear that he forced down into the deepest abyss of himself, along with everything else in relation to that cursed fall.

He needed to get up. Get up, cut the first purse and never trust anyone ever again.

If only he could move.

\---

He was surrounded by low, murmuring voices. Sometimes his head was tipped forwards as he was given water. It tasted like bile, but maybe that was no fault of the water but of his nausea—disgusting, either way. If he was stronger, he’d just push his lips together, but his body did not obey him.

He let his mind drift. There wasn’t much else to do.

\---

Therion awoke again. For once, his head didn’t feel like it’d been bashed into a wall, and he could listen in on the conversations around him.

Simple calculations from those conversations had yielded that he’d been in this state for four days, which didn’t seem plausible; he must have been here a gods-damned eternity.

One of the people that gave him bad-tasting water was a girl named Nina. She had company by a man with a deep cheerful voice and country accent. She called him Alfyn. And as far as Therion knew, those were the only ones in this house.

He tried to decipher from their voices if he’d be able to take them on in a fight—Therion usually had the upper hand if he had the moment of surprise on his side. Mostly because people wanted to assume the best and hesitated for a moment too long. Then got a fist in the eye because of their nice presumptions, like the fools they were.

On the other hand, Therion did not prefer direct combat at all. Hurting people was usually not necessary.

 _But HE hadn’t cared about necessity_.

The thought had stabbed into him without his say-so. He sucked in a breath, buried his mind in the abyss. Waiting for it to dissapear. 

\---

When Therion opened his eyes again, dust mites danced through the cracks of a wooden door. This place must not see very harsh winters if that was how badly insulated the houses were.

The second thing he noted was the presence of a smiling face beside him. A man in his twenties with sand-colored hair sticking out everywhere, despite an obvious attempt to tie it back from his unshaved scruffy chin. He had a distillation tube slung over his shoulder and fresh herbs in his breast pocket, and, most notably, a listening cylinder that he twirled between his fingers.

A village doctor. Or a total quacker. Could be either.

“Ah, hullo there! How’re ya today?”

Therion did not answer with more than a glare, but the man was the opposite of deterred by it. He only smiled wider.

“You’re looking way better to my eyes. Got some color on your cheeks today!” Then he toned down on his cheerfulness and put the listening cylinder away. “Dunno if you remember me introducing myself before—I’m Alfyn. One of the apothecaries in these parts. Do you know where you are?”

Therion considered staying quiet, but this was an innocent opportunity that may prepare him better for his escape.

“Riverlands,” he croaked. It was a guess, but Therion had pretty much been in every area on the western side of the continent, and he knew enough geography.

“That’s right. Clearbrook, to be precise. Mind telling me where you came from, yourself?”

Therion reflexively pulled his hand toward his belt, ready to defend himself. That question hurt like hell, even when said in such a friendly manner. But his arm felt funky, and it distracted him from the perceived danger. He looked down on his raised limb, bound and supported by a wooden splint.

“What the hell,” he mumbled, too tired to make it a question.

“Yeah, your wrist was pretty much snapped in two. Me and Alfred and Nina struggled with that for quite a while, but it will heal and be right as rain again. Got some ribs with the same fate, so quite a hit you’ve been through. But your spine seemed whole, which is good.”

Therion put his awkward arm on his chest and stared into the ceiling, pushing back at the whispers of memories that emerged. Memories that were twisted and contorted by the sensation of ice-cold water rushing over him. He tried not to sink back in there, fought the pain.

“If you don’t wanna talk about where you came from, I’d be happy to just know your name. It helps, you know.”

Therion glanced at the man, not for a second considering telling him the truth.

“Bert,” he said.

Alfyn nodded like he believed him. “Well, Bert. Ever had pneumonia before?”

Therion racked a cough and gave a weak ‘ _no_ ’.

“You’re pretty lucky, then!” Alfyn smiled. “But that’s what’s causing you some trouble and halting your recovery right now. Is it okay if I prop up your head? I need you to drink this.”

Therion lifted his head on his own accord, and Alfyn fluffed his pillow and fished two flasks out of his pocket. That was _definitely_ not water. One was bright green, the other a vague violet.

“What…?” Therion asked weakly. “What… is it?”

“Well, no one knows exactly _what_ pneumonia is except that it makes you cough because there’s stuff in your lungs that shouldn’t be there,” Alfyn explained without skipping a beat. “And since you’ve breathed a bit of river-water, there’s no surprise that you’d be feeling a bit under the weather. But I’ll get ya back on your feet in no time! Here you go.”

He uncorked the flasks, but Therion clenched his lips shut. “No. What is it?”

“This? Oh, sorry. It’s medicine. It’s brogwort and frilly leaves and—”

“Nice try,” Therion snapped. “Brogwort is poisonous. I’m not drinking that.”

Alfyn sighed. “Poisons and medicine aren’t as far apart as you’d think,” he said. “Is a matter of dosage and application and risks and benefits and all that. You just drowned in water, but that doesn’t change that we need water to survive, right?”

“I’m not drinking that,” Therion repeated.

“You’ve been given plenty already, and you’re still alive. I know it tastes bad, but you still need it to breathe better. I’m happy that you’re well enough to talk, but you're not near well enough yet.”

Alfyn pointed this out with an easy calm, and Therion was sure he’d heard the same voice used from annoying parents at a tavern trying to pry cooked parsnip into the mouth of their toddler. Weirdly enough, it almost worked to make Therion believe him, but a silent scream in his mind held him back. He turned his head away, stared into the wall.

“All right,” Alfyn said, frustratingly free of judgement. “It can wait. If you get uncomfortable in any way and need help but can’t yell, just drop this on the floor. It’ll catch either mine or Nina’s attention.”

Alfyn propped a piece of hardwood in Therion’s healthy hand. Giving him a potential weapon, just like that. There had to be a catch, but Therion’s head wasn’t clear enough to figure out what it could be. This man either played a flawless act, or he really, _genuinely_ didn’t think Therion would hurt him.

Didn’t make much sense, but Therion held the piece of wood as hard as he could in his hand, watching Alfyn get to his feet. With him getting to his full height, Therion could finally appraise the apothecary properly, and he didn’t like his odds. Alfyn was tall, his hair brushing the ceiling, and broad and burly. If things _did_ turn ugly, Alfyn could probably heave Therion face-first through the door if he wanted to. Not that he seemed like he _would_ want to, but everyone had a limit to their patience.

Therion just had to play his cards right and make sure that whenever that happened, he’d still be the one to stand as the victor.

\---

Therion sat upright. His chest still burned, but he wouldn’t just lie down and fade away.

It didn’t make sense, really; Therion had nowhere to go. He might as well die. The thought didn’t leave him alone, but spite kept him alive. Spite, and these bloody apothecaries.

“Okay, Bert,” Nina said with a clearing of her throat. “On a scale from one to ten, how would you rate your discomfort at the moment?”

“Fuck off,” Therion said flatly.

The girl reared back a little, and he had to wonder just how sheltered she was to react so strongly to a simple verbal slap. Therion had grown up with such phrases flung at him from every corner of the world, wealthy or poor.

_It’s just us against the world, mate._

Words Therion had lived by for a near-decade, and now they brought his discomfort up to a ten.

“I could just stop treating you, you know,” Nina threatened him. It sounded so hollow coming from such a tiny kid, and besides, Therion recognized gullible niceness when he saw it. This girl wouldn’t hurt a fly, at least not without crying over it for days after, but he could play along.

“That’s fine by me,” Therion croaked. “So why don’t you?”

Nina narrowed her eyes, calculating, then glanced over her shoulder. Looking for Alfyn, no doubt. Then she snapped her eyes back at him. “Because my big brother is in trouble because of your mean friends, and you’re going to fix it.”

Therion had caught bits and pieces of Nina and Alfyn talking about tracking horses and preparing for a journey, and while he could guess what was up, his brain was too exhausted to see the whole picture.

He didn’t answer Nina, only glared at her, and she pressed her lips together. She looked like she hated him, as much as a kid like her could hate a person. Which wasn’t very much, to be fair.

A thud at the door broke their silence, and Alfyn walked through the door with his arms full of reeds.

“Heya, Bert,” he smiled at Therion. “Nice to see you up! Are you uncomfortable?”

Why did they care so much if he was comfortable or not? He was alive. That should be enough.

“Quit the act,” Therion snapped at him. “Just tell me what you want from me.”

Alfyn looked genuinely surprised. Damn, he was good.

“I want for you to get better, first off.” Then he looked to Nina and dumped the reeds on the counter. “Next, it would be nice if you could help out a bit. A friend of mine needs it.”

Nina crossed her arms. She didn’t look as keen to wait until Therion got better or not—she lifted her chin and kept her gaze locked on him.

“That _friend_ is my brother,” she clarified. “I think you’d better talk soon, Bert—nothing big at first, but like… _Are_ you a bandit? And does the _Tea Leaves_ tell you anything?”

Therion felt the blood drain from his face.

Only one idiot on this earth called thieves by that name, and with it came the flash of red hair, a hand on Therion’s back as they snuck up the Bolderfall path together… A hand that just as suddenly darted down to Therion’s wrist and cracked it like a whip, snapping the bone in half.

The memory spun. Therion wished it would stop, but he had no power over this. His mind conjured a condescending smile glaring down at him as Therion was lifted off his feet and pushed out on a ledge. His legs stumbled, his mind desperately searched for a path of escape and finding none—he was forced to listen to a short speech about betrayal and examples and stare into a dozen eyes that did nothing but stare back as the final push was made…

His companions, his life, his everything. They watched him as he was falling, falling, _falling_ —

“Maybe you got up to sitting too fast,” a gentle voice told him, and Therion opened his eyes. He was lying down again. He remembered sitting.

“You fainted,” Alfyn said, as though reading his confusion. “It happens. Just take it slow, all right?”

Nina peeked up from over Alfyn’s shoulder, looking worried. The hardness she tried to have in her eyes was all gone. Her gaze was full of pity. Just… _pity_.

“Leave me alone,” Therion whispered, feeling his eyes burning with tears.

Alfyn nodded and drew a blanket over him. The warmth made Therion feel a little better, but not much. The tears kept coming, and he didn’t bother stopping them. He felt so alone, and once Nina left the room, his chest ached with the horror of being left lying there. He was still falling, and he couldn’t push the memory out of his mind.

“I hate this,” he said, and Alfyn stayed with one arm on the side of his bed, face completely free of frowns or judging gazes. Listening.

The sight both hurt and felt better. He refused to acknowledge the latter, though. He shook his head. He wouldn’t talk about it.

And Alfyn only nodded and patted the bedframe. Lingered for a bit, then offered him the piece of hardwood again.

“Drop it or give a holler,” Alfyn said. “I’ll be right with ya if you do. Okay?”

“Okay,” Therion yielded.

And once his tears stopped burning, he returned to formulating a plan of escape.


	4. Chapter 4

The chair scraped noisily when Alfyn pulled it back and gestured for Therion to sit. Therion grimaced, leaning on the walking support with his uninjured hand, and with huffing breaths, he reached the table.

The smell of fried, salted eggs enticed his senses, hell, he felt _hungry_ for the first time in days. It’d been a week or so since he’d been taken to this cottage and cared for, and he was growing stronger by the hour. They'd changed the support over his left wrist into something softer, too, allowing him to move easier.

It did feel a little much to be invited to share the apothecaries' hard-earned food, and at the same table no less, but they were nothing if not gullible. Maybe they thought Therion would appreciate such gestures and be manipulated to help out. Not a chance.

“You’d better be careful with that chair,” Nina snapped. “It’s Zeph’s!”

Therion wanted to roll his eyes but pushed the urge down.

“I’m not going to replace your brother, kid.” He was quiet for a bit, then nodded at the table. “Thanks for the eggs, though.”

Gratitude was a sign of weakness, he knew. But the way Alfyn’s face shone like a little sun did feel like it was worth the vulnerability—even though it was just an act.

They ate in silence. Nina sat opposite him reading notes Alfyn had made for her. When Therion had looked at them curiously one day earlier she’d folded them with an angry look at him.

“These are journals! They’re confidential, so don’t try! I’m only reading them because I need to take over Alfyn and Zeph’s patients once he leaves to fetch him.”

Therion didn’t try to read the papers. He could if he wanted to—he knew how to read upside down, all thieves worth their salt could—but what did he care for the medical needs of old Clearbrook residents? It was more interesting how dead-serious they were about running after this Zeph guy.

If Darius had taken Zeph, they were both long gone by now. A bitter thought festering in the corner of his mind, consisting of every feeling that was the opposite of jealousy. Therion didn’t know Zeph, but he felt bad for the poor bastard, having to stand the constant Darius-ness for a journey across the continent. If Zeph hadn’t been painted red across the throat already. That was a possibility.

Alfyn plucked their plates off the table, and Nina folded the journals again, and instead she opened a book with a map of Orsterra. It was a simple thing, just a few lines to mark the borders and dots for the towns, the largest roads thinly drawn. Not the most expensive kind, but that was to be expected of a backwater village like Clearbrook, Therion supposed.

“Okay, Bert,” Nina said seriously. “Can you just answer one question?”

“Sure,” Therion answered, to his own surprise. Maybe the eggs had worked to soften him up. Damnit.

“You _do_ know tea-leaf-guy, right?”

Thinking about Darius was easier now. Being healthier in body helped his mind sort through the most recent Darius-related things, shoving the whole thing into denial—although the older memories were stuck at washing over him randomly.

 _We’ll change the world, partner._ Right. Gods damn him to hell.

“You could say that,” Therion answered, a chill in his voice. “His name… his name’s Darius, by the way.”

Better if they knew. _Tea-leaf-guy_ was a mouthful.

“Darius,” Nina repeated with a pointed gaze at Alfyn. “Okay. Thanks. Do you know where he lives?”

Therion pressed his lips together and glared down at the map. Yeah, of course he knew. It had been his home too.

“You can’t be serious about going after him,” Therion said instead. “There’re dozens of… them. They won’t hesitate to gut a kid, or an apothecary.”

It had been meant to discourage them, but it worked the opposite. Nina put both her hands on the table and stared at him.

“So they could have hurt Zeph? Is that what you’re saying?”

Therion wasn’t sure what to answer. He noticed Alfyn’s knuckles tensing up until they whitened.

They would go after this guy, no matter what Therion said. And theoretically—no, _definitely_ —that would end with this Alfyn guy bleeding out in a ditch somewhere. It was just the way of things. If Therion couldn’t stop it, why should he try?

He pointed at the northernmost town-dot on the map.

“Northreach,” he said. “That’s... the place.”

Alfyn’s knuckles relaxed a bit, and he leaned over the book too. He had the same listening-face as with Therion some days before, except there was a determination in his gaze Therion wouldn’t have imagined. He seemed so free and easy—but _that_ was the look of a man who could chop someone’s leg off without hesitation.

It was a shame that wouldn’t amount to anything. His days were numbered. He would walk into a nest of wolves, and nothing but his bones would remain.

“That’s so far away,” Nina muttered. “What were they doing all the way to the south?”

Therion bit back a sour reply. It would hurt him twice more than it would them to be reminded of why Darius had gone to Bolderfall.

Therion’s discomfort with the matter seemed stupid in hindsight. What was a little murder-quest, anyway. He could have just shut his mouth and lowered his head, and his world would have looked so different. He wouldn’t have been here, for starters.

But a small voice told him that this—being discarded like a used rag—was how he would end up sooner or later anyway. He ignored that voice.

“It’s nice to have a location,” Alfyn said slowly. “Thank you, Bert.”

Therion cringed a little at the fake name. It sounded so ridiculous at this point. These people were around him all day—and didn’t even call him by his real name.

It was even more ridiculous with how gently Alfyn reached his hand out to help him to standing, to help him take painstakingly slow steps back toward the bed—Therion was sure he could walk better than this, but he refused to show it. He needed an edge when he ran away.

But he wasn’t well enough to run yet. So he sat down by the counter and side-eyed the patients of Clearbrook as they came to the cottage seeking the aid of this painfully kind man as the day went by.

And said patients were too nice to leave Therion out of the conversation. Maybe it was a small-town thing.

“Hey,” a fisherman chuckled. “You’re Bert, right? Man, it’s nice to see you’ve recovered well! It was my pa who pulled you outta the water, you know.”

“Tell him thank you,” Therion muttered sarcastically.

“I will,” the fisherman beamed. “Have a good one, Bert.”

Another villager chatted to Therion about his crops. A third—the tavern master—went on about his homebrew in such detail Therion could feel his eyes glistening with thirst, and the tavern master only chuckled and leaned over the counter at him.

“I’ll ask doc if you’re well enough to get you a pint,” he said. “An’ if he says no, I’ll bring one anyway. You look like you need ‘un.”

“Dropped my money in the river,” Therion said with a cold stare down into the counter.

The tavern master laughed. “Well, then it'll wash up here eventually. It’s my treat until then.”

Therion could only stare after the man as he left. Next came a woman his age who blushed and waved at him. Therion was too confused about it not to wave back, earning giggles that made his ears go red.

People were _never_ nice without an ulterior motive. He should know that at this point. Alfyn and Nina wanted to get their Zeph-guy back, so they had a logical reason to be as nice as they were—but the rest were just painfully pleasant all the time, and he didn't _get it_.

Whatever their game, Therion wouldn’t lose it. His head spun constantly with the theories and ideas of how he’d be able to get out of there. He had a somewhat finished plan on how to escape this village, assuming the worst at every turn, and he needed the cover of night before then.

Alfyn left in the afternoon though, so really there was nothing actually _keeping_ Therion where he was. Except maybe the idea of Alfyn spotting him trying to run, and carrying him back here, insisting that Therion wasn't healthy enough to run yet.

Or maybe he would let Therion go with a smile and a wave.

But no. All that kindness couldn’t be real. It just couldn’t be. Therion was a prisoner here until Alfyn and Nina had gotten all the information they wanted. They’d demand of him to unpack what he pushed into the back of his mind, they’d draw all the secrets out of him until he was an empty shell—it just wouldn’t make sense if they didn’t.

It was evening once Alfyn was finished with his duties around town. He smiled at Therion when he came in through the door, looking more than a little stressed out, but trying to cover it up. He hadn’t laughed much since their morning conversation, not even when the villagers cracked jokes with him. Although the villagers seemed to be worried about the Zeph-guy too, giving condolences and encouragements that hadn’t lessened the whiteness on Alfyn’s knuckles one bit.

And yet he still tried to smile at Therion. Why?

“It’s a lovely evenin’,” Alfyn greeted him. “I was thinking I could help you outside—you could use the practice, and fresh air will do ya good.”

He put his apothecary satchel down and reached his hand out to Therion sitting on the side of the bed.

Therion took the offer. Anything to give him an edge. Seeing the village for himself would help him in his escape. Staking out which houses would be the easiest to break into, which ones probably held the most coins for him to take—

The first and most obvious target would be the house he was in, of course. Therion barely needed to be conscious to be able to figure out potential hiding places for people’s savings; it was a finely honed talent, and it wasn’t like Alfyn bothered to hide his very well anyway.

But he couldn't do that. The hand that took Therion's was warm and secure like a soft harp, despite the callouses, and it just wouldn’t be right to steal from him. Therion gladly inflicted loss and theft on people who spit on him, but despite Darius’ constant attempts to flatten it, Therion had a conscience.

Much good it had done him, since that was the whole reason he was in this spot to begin with, but he held fast to the thought. Alfyn and Nina were annoying, sure, but they didn't deserve to lose their stuff.

Alfyn pushed the door open, and the summer air was crisp and the sky a tint of red high above the endless leafy forest to the west of them. Therion leaned on the door frame for a moment, just breathing it in.

Gravel paths mixed with bare earth like a spiderweb before him, where villagers had made shortcuts through grassy areas, making the entire village look connected no matter where one started. Some paths led out into the forest, some to the main road, a lot of them to the tavern, and most of them led to where he was standing. A small cottage with grassy roof and a mint green door and a shrubbery filled with wildflowers and bright sunflowers lining the wall—that was the true center of this village. It’s heart. It’s lifeblood.

It was so simple. Too simple for a thief to make a living, that was for sure. He might have to leave with empty pockets—though perhaps that was for the better. None of these people deserved to have their earnings taken from them.

Alfyn helped Therion down the two steps, then let go as Therion could support himself on the wooden shrubbery box. He felt stronger now, and he didn’t start wheezing the first thing he did. And for the first time in a long while, he felt himself smile. Just a small smirk, but still.

His fingers brushed against a strangely shaped flower support, and stopped to look at it. It was thicker than necessary, with holes drilled into it.

He arced a brow and glanced back on Alfyn. “There’s a flute in your shrubbery.”

“Oh yeah,” Alfyn chuckled, looking a bit softer in the face at the mention. “That was Zeph’s idea. I spilled a neurotoxin all over it. No matter how much you washed it, it still made your lips and tongue go numb when you played it, and one of the flowers sagged, so, you know.”

Therion regarded the tiny pink blooms in quiet confusion. “Wouldn’t that kill the plants?”

“Nope, just makes them more potent. Painkillers, the lot of them. Makes really good salve, lasts forever too. Thanks for the reminder—I’ve been meaning to stock up on some. Been using a lot of that salve, lately.”

Therion put his splinted wrist against his chest. He knew where that salve had gone, and he also knew just how expensive that stuff was. At least in Northreach, where the only thing that grew was heathers and moss.

Just how much would he have owed these apothecaries, if it weren’t for his intention of leaving without payment? A thought that disturbed him more than he expected.

“You know I cannot pay you for any of this, right?” Therion glanced back on Alfyn, who had hopped down the stairs and joined him, shielding his eyes from the setting sun.

“Why’d you worry about that?” Alfyn sounded genuinely surprised. “I cannot just _not_ treat a man, can I? It’s on the house. Grateful for your help, but even without it I’d make sure you’re doing good, Bert.”

Therion grimaced. “Just stop it with the _Bert_ already. I’m Therion.”

Alfyn frowned for a moment, then huffed a little laugh. “Yeah, okay Therion, will do. But next time pick a fake name you actually _like_ , yeah?”

There was something about how Alfyn said his name that made Therion’s chest twist. Maybe he’d just missed hearing his name spoken out loud, but really, no one had said it like that in forever. To Darius he’d been _partner_ , to the rest of the gang his name had been hollered and cheered for with rough implications. _Great job, Therion-boss. Hah, Therion couldn’t mug four beers if he tried! You and me against the world, partner!_

Therion stretched his fingers on his injured wrist. He was feeling faint again, but he refused to collapse into the undergrowth. It would be too pathetic.

He clenched his teeth. “Hey, so… When will you leave for your guy?”

Alfyn closed his eyes, the filtered sunlight casting red flecks on his cheeks. “The day after tomorrow, I think. Got some stuff to prepare. Northreach sure is far, innit?”

“Yeah,” Therion agreed, tearing his eyes away. There was no use in staring at a doomed man. It wasn’t like he should care, anyway.

“You’ll be well enough to leave soon too, I reckon.” Alfyn crossed his arms. “We don’t have anythin’ as fancy as horses and carriages around these parts, but if you need help getting back home, we can accompany each other, yeah?”

“I’m not going back to Northreach,” Therion said quickly. “It’s not my home anymore.”

“All right,” Alfyn nodded. “So where will you go?”

“It’s none of your business.” Therion did not sound as harsh as he’d meant to. It was both easier and more difficult to snap at Alfyn compared to anyone else. He was just too annoyingly agreeable.

“Yeah, suppose it isn’t.”

They were quiet for a bit. The breeze ruffled Therion’s hair, like a hand from Aeber, patron of thieves, gesturing out to freedom. The world’s riches was out there for the taking; there'd be nothing tying him down, just him and the roads and shadows.

Therion attempted to let go of the shrubbery box, and crossed his arms and breathed deeply again. No racking cough this time. He really was getting better, and it was neither luck nor spite that had done it.

“Hey, doc,” Therion muttered into the air, a little hesitantly. “…Thanks.”

Alfyn kept his eyes closed, but he grinned. “Ain’t a problem, man. It’s what I do.”

The shadows behind him moved, and Therion looked over his shoulder, tensing up immediately. It would take a while for him to be free of fear, even in a place like this. It was nothing but a tree moved in the wind, _this_ time.

“You wanna go for a walk?” Alfyn asked him, tilting his head and squinting at him with a friendly smile. “As far as you manage, of course.”

Therion would answer both yes and no to that question, but he nodded, and round the cottage they went. Down the gravel paths, across a stone bridge. The river swirled and gurgled below, invisible streams pushing the water forward. Therion shuddered but kept his step.

“I was thinkin’ I should stop by the tavern,” Alfyn said. “Might be one of my last chances to do so, at least for a while.”

Therion had not tasted any brews for at least two weeks. It was similar to being on the road, but at least then he and his team would drop by the nearest tavern and enjoy themselves every third day or so. _Sweet memories._

But he wasn’t going to assume an invitation, so he only nodded and stopped with his hand on the railing of the bridge.

“I can see myself back on my own,” he said, to which Alfyn tilted his head back.

“You sure? I don’t mind some company, but I get if that’s not your thing.”

Therion narrowed his eyes, almost offended. “I have higher tolerance than you, I’d bet.”

Alfyn threw his head back and laughed; broad-shouldered and tall as he was, he might be right to.

“Easy there, friend,” he said and patted Therion on the back.

And although Therion drew his dagger at most people attempting to touch him, he let it happen. It wasn’t _trust_ , gods no, but it wasn’t crossing a line either. It was the same hand that had helped him to standing every morning these last five days, supported him down the stairs—it was fine.

And there was the word _friend_ in there, too. Therion was no one’s friend. He was their mate, their partner, their buddy—never _friend_. Thieves couldn’t afford such.

The tavern wasn’t far, but even so, Therion was almost exhausted by the time he slid down on a wooden stool. The barkeep greeted him and winked at him at the reminder of offering him a free drink, treating both Therion and Alfyn.

It was a simple place, just like everything seemed to be in Clearbrook. Two or three tables and just two chairs by the bar, a couple of aged kegs in the back and wax candles propped into iron sconces lining the walls. Gnats buzzed by the two open windows where the sun basked the entire room in velvet color.

“Lovely evenin’ we got, eh?” the tavern master grinned at them.

Therion nodded, although his attention was set on two things: pockets and doors. Not that he planned to either steal or flee, but that was just how his brain was wired. There wasn’t much left of him to enjoy the scenery, but even the old thief-brain had to stop and bask in the glory that was the deep taste of hops and juniper from the barkeep’s brew.

He could have downed the entire mug right there, but merely sipped on the foam and nodded. “You weren’t kidding about this stuff being your finest. I don’t believe even Noblecourt could hold a candle to this brew.”

The tavern master grinned even wider, and patted Alfyn on the shoulder with a loud laugh. “Thanks for dragging this one outta the afterlife, doc—that’s the best thing I’ve heard in years! Better than Noblecourt wine! Ahahaha!” He turned to the rest of the room, beaming like the setting sun. “Hey everyone, did’ya hear ol’ Bert here—?”

The tavern master skipped back to the bar, bragging about the compliment twice over. Therion sighed through his nose, but stayed above it by leaning back over the table, continuously sipping from his mug. He tried to pointedly ignore Alfyn’s happy grin, but that was an impossibility, unfortunately.

The odd thing was, Alfyn _knew_ Therion was a thief. For a guy all about good deeds, why was he not for a second bothered by Therion’s past—why did he look at Therion like he knew he’d be _nice_? Sure, Therion knew how to be polite, but that was all about lowering someone’s guard, stroking their ego—only rookies fell for that stuff.

It was an act, all of it. There had been something genuine in Therion’s life, but that had shattered the moment his back cracked the surface of the Canyon River. And now he’d ride solo for the rest of his life. He was done, and one grinning apothecary with warm hands couldn’t change that.

Those hands would soon grow cold either way. Darius wasn’t so soft as to fall for anyone’s charm and salves.

Therion slammed the mug down, killing the thought before it evolved further, and looked at Alfyn from under his eyelids. The man was already on his seconds, rosy-cheeked but otherwise unfazed, and he waved to everyone who met his gaze. They waved back, of course.

“You’re going to miss this village,” Therion stated. He wasn’t sure why he’d opened his mouth, because he didn’t care, but he’d regret it if he didn’t take this opening to change his foolhardy plans.

“S’pose I will,” Alfyn smiled over the rim of his mug. “But I was always intent on leavin’ anyway. Sooner or later.”

Therion had only been here for a few weeks, but even then he could only think of Alfyn as an uninterchangeable part of the place, and him leaving of his free will sounded as likely as a tree growing feet and walking away.

“Why’s that?”

Alfyn snorted a laugh. “Childhood dreams, man. This place has enough help, but there are villages all around the continent that might need someone like me.”

“A traveling apothecary, eh?” Therion muttered. “Those and merchants are prime targets for bandits, you know.”

“Hasn’t stopped the people before me, has it?” Alfyn put his empty mug down. “What matters is that I can save a life or two, ease the suffering and all. Might as well do that on my way to Northreach too, right?”

Therion clenched his fist around his mug.

“The world out there is not gonna be kind to you,” Therion said. “You know that, right?”

Alfyn shrugged, face free of burden. Ignorance was bliss, Therion thought, but he was also begrudgingly impressed because most people responded to kidnappings of their close friends with distress and panic and wouldn’t be half as keen to run headfirst into such a merciless world—Alfyn clearly _understood_ the stakes, but they didn’t seem to matter to him.

Alfyn gave him a crooked smile, looking all too amused by Therion’s scrutinizing glares, and raised his mug, tapping the base into Therion’s.

“A toast to your good health,” he chuckled. “I don’t think you need my care for much longer, friend. I’ll see you off before I leave. Unless you’d like to walk together through the Cliftlands, that offer still stands.”

Therion thumped his own mug into Alfyn’s, his escape plans at the forefront of his mind.

“I’ll think about it,” he lied.

\---

It was dark by the time they left the tavern. Therion was feeling a bit unsteady, which was new to him—those homebrews may have been of stronger stuff than he’d realized. Alfyn seemed as sure on his feet as usual, except a bit giddier. Not embarrassingly so, at least not to Therion’s befuddled mind, just… hopeful, maybe. At least he’d been like that ever since Therion had told him he might come with. Or perhaps that was not it. Who knew—Therion was a bit drunk, and analyzing unimportant matters didn’t exactly run smoothly.

They passed by the inn, and Therion gave it a long stare. He was well enough to stay in a room there, something Alfyn didn’t even seem to have considered. It would be easier to slip away from there, Therion thought, but it would also be trickier to get out of paying. Alfyn offered a bed for free, and Therion would take that for as long as he could. Until it was time to run.

But with this slight throbbing headache, with Alfyn holding the door open and giving him a playful bow, he asked himself the same question again and again: _What would you even be running from?_

“Get some rest, man,” Alfyn told him, chuckling to himself. “You look like you need it. Sorry for dragging you out there with me. Zeph would give me a mouthful over it.”

Therion slipped down on the bed in the corner. Crickets chirped a soothing song, and Nina’s feet tapped on the floor of the attic. Therion kept his eyes half-closed, waiting for Alfyn to collapse on his bed on the other side of the room, but Alfyn merely walked past his little bedroll like he had no intention of resting.

“Aren’t you getting some shut-eye too?” Therion muttered, watching Alfyn polish an empty flask with his sleeve before he set it down.

“Got some stuff I’d like to prepare, first," Alfyn answered. "Gonna leave Nina with a good stock of tinctures, so she won’t have to make as many herself. I’ll be as quiet as I can.”

Therion kicked off his shoes, pretending to get comfortable and ready to sleep, but his mind was still spinning with plans.

He knew the door was unlocked. It wasn’t quiet, but he’d dealt with squeakier doors than that in the past and gotten off scot-free. He was well enough to walk. He usually woke up before the other two—even if he slept for a bit now, he could slip away unseen and begin his new life.

Without partners. Without guilds. Without anyone other than himself.

No more apothecaries, though. He still didn’t trust either of his saviors, but when Therion fell asleep, it wasn’t Darius’ condescending grin coming at him from an impending nightmare… it was the strange befuddling clouds of boiling herbal remedies and the sight of a man with his hand flecked by crushed rose thorns.

What the hell. He could postpone running away. For a bit, at least.


	5. Chapter 5

Therion found himself yet again sitting in the sun, shading his eyes. He’d walked there all on his own, and while going up the few stairs to the cottage still left him dizzy, that was a later problem. He was down here now, his newly washed scarf smelling of lavender. When no one was looking at him, he brought the fabric closer to his face and breathed deeply.

It was impossible for either Alfyn or Nina to know he loved those tiny fragrant tufts, and even so, Nina had proudly made two batches of lavender soap and given one to him. Therion would have stolen one if she hadn’t, so it was nice of her to save him the work.

 _Nice_. He thought the word sarcastically, of course. It was more like a bribe.

Either way, he was feeling pretty good. In comparison to a week ago, that was. Sunlight, lavender, sunflowers swaying behind him and a village’s worth of cluelessly happy waves thrown his way…He’d admit to himself that he liked this place enough to vow to never return.

Because he only returned to places with the intent to take.

A tap of feet on the staircase, and Therion’s mood soured a little. Alfyn was out collecting ingredients for his journey, so the only one who could come from the house was Nina. Maybe she’d take mercy upon him and ignore him, but of course she wouldn’t do such a thing.

Her braids bounced as she hopped up beside him on the wooden shrubbery. Her heels knocked against the planks as she swayed them, not reaching the ground. She really was just a child, and she’d take up the responsibility of caring for an entire village. Weird thing to observe, especially since he knew kids could do a lot of things if circumstances pushed them enough.

He’d been much younger than her when he stood on his own feet for the first time. Listening to other street-rat kids tell tales of the great trickster God, tales that made the real thing sound much fancier than they were—but hey, pretending to be a lost kid only to nab a purse was an art form and worked more times than anyone would ever give them credit for.

“I liked the name Bert better,” Nina suddenly said. “What kind of name is Therion, anyway?”

She’d been quiet for the entire morning, and Therion had almost forgotten she could speak. There was an edge to her voice, unsurprisingly. Alfyn would leave tomorrow, and she probably knew what that would mean. She wouldn’t say it, but Therion could tell.

“Nina’s a dumb name too,” he answered her without glancing her way. “What the deal with that?”

She scoffed; he could basically hear her rolling her eyes. “It’s immature to answer a question with a question.”

He gave her a dark glare. “Thank you, literal child, for your infinite wisdom.”

Nina shrugged, drumming her feet against the planks, again and again. “You know, you’re not as mean as you try to be.”

“Fuck off,” he answered, but without any vitriol. That phrase had caused Nina to rein back a week or so earlier, but now she didn’t budge. She stared into the ground, her jaws clenched.

“I’m not scared of you,” she said, decidedly.

“You should be,” Therion muttered, fighting the urge to hug his knees to his chest, which would only prove him wrong. “I’ve done things that’d give you nightmares.”

He was obviously overselling it a bit, but honestly… The way Darius had been in later years, maybe not. He’d taken a liking to the way his blade gave him power, how his influence grew from fear. He’d slashed scars across plenty of faces, struck children in his way, torn the capes of people in the middle of freezing winter.

And Therion had stood by him all the way, like a damned idiot, thinking he would never take the brunt of it.

Nina sat silently for a bit after that, then shrugged again. “I’m not scared of you,” she repeated. “I’m scared for Zeph, though… and Alfyn too.”

Therion had nothing to say to that, so he just looked away. The sunlight didn’t seem as warm, now.

Nina shuffled a little beside him, nervous and distracted. “If Northreach is as bad as you say… Will they be all right?”

“Probably not,” Therion answered bluntly. “Hell, what do you want me to say? Alfyn’ll get robbed blind as soon as he gets even close to the Riverland border, if he isn’t killed before then.”

Nina’s breath caught in her throat, and she curled up with her knees against her chest, just like Therion longed to do. “That can’t be true,” she whispered. “Why'd you say that?”

She was so annoying to ask him the obvious, and yet, the words spilled out of him.

“Because the world is cruel and he’s too kind. Besides, he’ll be alone, which is just begging for brigands to target him—I’ve told him, and he doesn’t mind, which means he’s an idiot. Which means he’s definitely not going to last out there.”

He afforded a glance over at Nina again, saw her gaze unfocused and glazed. “How can you sound so indifferent? It’s like… you don’t care about him.”

“No,” Therion frizzled. “Obviously, I do not!”

Nina contemplated this in silence again, before she straightened her neck. “Well, you should. You should care. And if you’re so smart and scary, you should go with him!”

“I’m a thief, not a nanny.”

Nina glared at him, undeterred. She seemed to be searching for the right words, but it didn’t seem like she could find them. She hopped down on the ground with a frustrated grunt. She slammed the door shut, not making a good case for her suggested maturity.

Therion pulled the scarf over his mouth and nose, his mind grumbling bitter nonsense. Like a spiteful demon of irony, his memories conjured a thirteen-year-old redheaded boy in a dingy gaol.

The image of that boy from the other side of the bars would be a temporary one, as the gaol was the same place as Therion had been headed, ushered by a guard who couldn’t handle being sassed. A guard who made the mistake of punching Therion in the gut so that his keys were made all the easier to pluck off his belt.

Therion had only been eleven. He’d not exactly welcomed the appreciative laughter from the thirteen-year-old boy that had been his audience, and he’d known better than to let flattery of his skills soften him up. But nonetheless, Therion had warmed up to that boy the second he opened his mouth.

_I’m a no-good tea leaf who got caught in the act, just like yourself._

Within the span of a breath, two lonely thieves had found a connection. They spoke the same language, that of self-preservation and condescension at those who thought themselves their better, but there was something beyond that too. A spark.

Therion smirked as he showed off the key he’d plucked, and the boy laughed heartily despite a face bruised to hell from the guard’s earlier manhandling.

With an unlocked door as their witness, the two shook hands under torches that dimly lit bloodstained floors. The perfect place for thieves to begin their lifelong pact.

 _Well, Therion_ , the young Darius had said. _Looks like you and I are officially partners in crime_.

“Idiot,” Therion muttered, closing his eyes against the sun. He wasn’t sure if he meant himself, Nina, Alfyn or Darius. All four, probably, and deservedly so.

He had relied on someone, and wouldn’t do the same mistake again. He was stronger without someone to stab him in the back.

His wrist ached as to prove his point, but when he opened his eyes and saw Alfyn wander his way with an overfull satchel, a foolish part of his mind argued that Nina actually had a point. He could go with him, someone who’d had the chance to stab him numerous times already and hadn’t taken it. He could follow him to Northreach, at least, and then…

He clenched his fists, got to his feet.

Alfyn smiled at him—damn him for looking so cluelessly thoughtful, it basically sealed the deal—and Therion glared back, shoving his fists down his pockets.

“You’re looking swell,” Alfyn greeted him. “I can leave you in good conscience, eh?”

“And you’re still headed to Northreach,” Therion stated. “Like a fool.”

“You’re probably underestimating me, buddy.”

That was somehow the most aggravating thing he could have possibly said. Sure, Alfyn could probably get the upper hand in a tavern brawl given his size, but that was about it. Would he even hit back if someone smacked him across the face? Given the way he offered his hand to Therion to help him up the stairs… That seemed unlikely.

Therion took his support regardless. “You suggested something yesterday,” he prodded carefully, almost hoping Alfyn wouldn’t remember.

“About you coming with me, wassit?”

He evidently hadn’t forgotten. Therion cursed under his breath, pushing the door open, spotting Nina’s grumpy figure resting her chin on her arms. His decision would please her so much, and he hated it, he hated _yielding_. Even if it was his own idea and she had nothing to do with it.

“You saying you wanna go?” Alfyn smiled wider. “I’d appreciate it!”

“Yes, fine,” Therion muttered. “We’ll go get your boyfriend. Not that I care.”

“Oh, hey, nice! Though Zeph’s not my boyfriend,” Alfyn pointed out. “I mean we technically tried that when we were like, twelve—didn’t work out. It was around the time Zeph was falling for Mercedes anyway.”

“I said I didn’t care,” Therion retorted, a bit surprised by the relief he felt. He still hated the way Nina looked up, her eyes glistening with newfound hope.

He might have just dug his own grave, but that was better than running and hiding like a scared rabbit.

 _Darius_ , he thought to himself with no hesitation in his mind. _I guess I’ll see you soon… partner._


	6. Chapter 6

Saying goodbye to Nina was one of the hardest things Alfyn had ever done. He’d always prepared to do it one day, but that was when she was a grown-up lady and could live without Zeph’s or Alfyn’s constant guidance…not as a kid with still-round cheeks and tears in her eyes.

He thought she’d never let go.

 _Promise to come back with him_ , she’d said, and obviously he’d promised. He was no fortune teller, but heck, he liked his chances, especially now that he had company. Therion was about as cheery as a rainy winter morning, but that somehow didn’t damper Alfyn’s mood.

“So,” Alfyn said gleefully, noticing how Therion eyed every cart and carriage passing them by (they were rare and far between, as there was never much traffic on Clearbrook roads). “I planned to hire a cart once we get to Bolderfall. We could pass through the Woodlands like that, anyway, if we’re lucky we can maybe go straight to Northreach?”

Therion mumbled something too quiet to hear, eyes on the end of the empty road—he was watching it angrily, like it taunted him.

To Alfyn, on the other hand, it beckoned. Circumstances weren’t great, obviously, but still… He was leaving Clearbrook behind. Mysterious plagues, tropical diseases, monstrous curses—there could be anything out there, but one thing that never changed was that there'd be sick people in need of healing. Alfyn didn’t care how impossible his tasks would be, if he just brought them on and did what he could, it would be enough.

Hopefully that counted for Zeph, too. It would have to be sufficient if he just tried hard enough, right?

“We won’t _hire_ a cart,” Therion said over his shoulder. “You have two silver pieces! It’ll barely buy you two stretches of hills, much less from Bolderfall to Northreach.”

Alfyn put his hand over his money pouch, barely conscious of the motion. “You’ve been lookin’ in my pouch? Rude.”

Therion rolled his eyes at him. “I don’t need to look _into_ it, just _at_ it. It’s thin, but not bronze-piece thin. And the way it jingles, it’s obviously just two coins. Every pickpocket would see the same thing from across the road, and I’ve been walking beside you since dawn. What do you take me for, an amateur?”

“Huh,” was all Alfyn could think to say. “I never realized how much thought goes into thieving. Weird, innit?”

“Most people don’t,” Therion said, with a slight chill to his voice. “Don’t worry about the cart. I have a plan.”

“I’d like to not rob people,” Alfyn felt the need to point out, and it felt ridiculous. When had he ever had to make that clear?

Therion sighed through his nose and spun around on his heels. It was an effortless and light motion, like dandelion seeds moving in a gust of wind.

“We won’t have to, if you play your part,” Therion said casually and gestured at Alfyn’s face and torso. It made him weirdly self-conscious. “You can pass for a regular traveler, and you look trustworthy enough. I stopped trying to hitch rides the honest way a long time ago—" The words caught in his throat, and he stopped for a moment, before walking on, quicker than before. “—but the way you look, they might just stop for you and let you ride comfortably with them. I’ll hide down the side of the road and leave you to it, and once you’re on, I’ll hop on the back. They won’t even notice me.”

Alfyn felt himself frown deeper and deeper the further Therion went. “Hopping on the back…? Is that how you usually do it?”

“I was eleven the last time,” Therion snapped. “So no, not _usually_. Darius preferred horses if he ever wanted to leave Northreach. Which he didn’t do, much. Mind your own business.”

Therion had grimaced like he’d tasted bile. Alfyn let him be, at least for a while. Watching his companion hurry onwards like he was stepping on hot coals was a clear signal. Therion was running from him, or at least being extremely mindful of a distance between them. Maybe that was fair. Zeph had called Alfyn clingy sometimes, mostly in jest, but he may have had a point. Therion had been crammed into their little cottage for almost two weeks now, after all. Of course he wanted space.

The sun had moved considerably over the sky, and still no sign of a carriage. Alfyn had found a tullenberry bush and hurriedly scooped some into his hands, and busied himself with sorting through the leaves and stems.

Therion had glanced over his shoulder a few times, watching him work on the go. They were still quiet, and Alfyn didn’t want to bother the man if he wasn’t up for small talk—but Therion surprised him.

“What’re those good for?”

Alfyn glanced up at him. Therion still frowned, but his eyes weren’t like daggers, which was all things considered a pretty soft expression for him, at least by the little Alfyn knew.

“Juices can help a dying man find peace,” he answered, which he found a finer way of saying it could alleviate existential dread. “Dried berries are less potent, you squash ‘em and smear ‘em on a tooth that needs pulling and it won’t hurt as much, then you put the leaves on there and it stops the bleeding.”

Therion wrinkled his nose. “What if you mistake one for the other?”

Alfyn chuckled at that. “Do _you_ take _me_ for an amateur?”

Therion scoffed a laugh too, and hurriedly looked ahead to hide it. He didn’t say anything else for a few more minutes, but it had felt like an invite for more idle talk.

“I suppose we’ll be in Bolderfall soon,” Alfyn said. “Those look like cliffs at the horizon. Man, I’ve never seen them up close.”

“They’re not that great,” Therion said, an edge to his voice again. “Vastly overrated. Bolderfall too. Messy town.”

“D’you know it well?”

Therion’s eyes shot over to him like darts. “Ground rules for this to work, doc. Don’t pry too much. Okay?”

Man, so he’d overstepped. Therion was like the pricklier kind of out-of-Clearbrook patient that Alfyn had occasionally treated as they were passing through. It was fair that they wanted to keep their secrets, but everything went a lot easier if they were willing to chat for a bit. That way, tiny details might weave their way into the conversations, details that his patients didn’t realize were important for the final diagnosis. Or if that didn’t happen, at least they’d both have had a nice friendly talk which could be like medicine in its own right.

Not the case here, evidently.

“Got it,” Alfyn affirmed.

Therion seemed to be about to speak again when the distant rattle of a carriage brought them both to look ahead.

“It’s going toward Clearbrook,” Alfyn noted. “So that’s no use to hitch a ride on, right?”

Therion squinted at the dot between the high cliffs. “Yes and no,” he said. “Everyone knows that the first one you meet never stops for you. Use it as practice. And if they do offer you to go with them, just say that you’re headed the opposite way.”

Alfyn suddenly doubted this plan of theirs. “How do I ask something of someone rattling towards me faster than I can run? Wave and yell?”

“It’s been a while, like I said,” Therion stated. “Just try to look innocent.”

“Innocent of what, exactly?”

Therion slapped a hand against his face and groaned. “I don’t—I can’t explain it, damn you. Just do it!”

Alfyn opened his mouth to speak again, but Therion had already darted out into the bushes, leaving him to his fate.

The carriage shook the pebbles on the road as it went closer. Alfyn breathed deeply and walked to the side.

It was just practice. The first brews he’d made, he’d thrown away because they were unusable. The first few times he’d opened a hasty nut he’d crushed the delicate insides. This was no different.

He smiled as the carriage came over the bend, straight towards him. He smiled wide and lifted his palm in the friendliest wave he could force.

“Ho there!” he called. “I’m a travelin’ apothecary! I’d ‘preciate it if you could be kind enough to take me on!”

The carriage driver was an average-size man with a not-so-average sized hat tied beneath his clean-shaven chin, its rim flapping in the airspeed. He stared dead ahead, pointedly ignoring Alfyn for everything he was worth, like he was a cockroach too disgusting to look at.

The driver urged the horses and the carriage sped past Alfyn. It hurt a little bit, but maybe it was good riddance.

Alfyn rubbed the back of his neck as to wipe the disappointment away, and he was about to turn to look over where Therion had disappeared when the carriage slowed, then stopped.

The door opened, and a young lady leaned out of it, hair like dark straw tied into a bun at the base of her neck. She hugged a book to her chest, her eyes wide in surprise.

“Alfyn?” she shouted at him. “Alfyn! It is you, right? I thought I heard you!”

It took him a moment more to recognize her—it’d been four years since they’d seen each other last, and she’d been by Zeph’s side so much Alfyn had had no time to talk to her, but nonetheless, his memory of her was clear as day.

“Mercedes!” he shouted back, walking over towards her. “Good to see you! Are you… are you going to Clearbrook?”

Mercedes looked him up and down, as if doubting it was really him. “Of course I’m coming to Clearbrook! Didn’t Zeph tell you? Oh, don’t say he never got my letter?”

“Ah,” Alfyn said, feeling his fingers grow a bit cold. This was an unforeseen complication. ”Mercedes, see, Zeph isn’t… home. Hasn’t been for a few weeks.”

Mercedes simply stared at him, a frown forming between her thick eyebrows (Zeph sometimes gushed over those at length). It was a face Alfyn recognized so well from when they were kids, her trying to puzzle things together.

“Did something happen?”

“Miss,” the carriage driver shouted back at her. “I won’t be staying still for long, I’m telling you! This is how the bandits trap you—this fella has a bunch of his friends out there hiding in the bushes, so when they come rushing at us, I’m going, whether you’re in there or not!”

“Calm yourself,” Mercedes told him. “I know this man, and he has no assault waiting for us.”

“Actually, I have one friend hiding in the bushes,” Alfyn clarified. “But not to attack anyone, mind you.”

Mercedes frowned even deeper. “Alfyn, what’s going on?”

“If it’s all right with ya, maybe we could talk in that wagon of yours for a bit? All three of us. There’s a bunch to tell, and honestly… I think it’s best if you’re sittin’.”

\---

The carriage driver was obviously not thrilled about having to wait in one place—seeing Therion pop out of the bushes at Alfyn’s call probably put him even more on edge—and so Mercedes, without yet knowing half of what was going on, asked him to turn around and make for Bolderfall again.

It was Alfyn’s first time in a carriage, and he felt like his head was rattling like a pebble in an empty can. He didn’t understand how Therion could look so comfortable in the opposite corner of the carriage (actually, he looked like a bit like a cat cheated on lunch, but that was just the regular level of Therion-brooding, not caused by the violent bumps and shakes).

Alfyn had yelled half of the story by the time the carriage skidded to a stop at the base of a giant red cliff. Mercedes made no move to get out, her eyes darting between Therion and Alfyn, still with the look of solving a puzzle.

“So Zeph never got my letter,” she mumbled. “I never thought… Alfyn, this cannot be happening. How’s Nina taking this? Is she safe—?”

“Nina’s fine,” Alfyn answered with one quick look on Therion as well. “She was there when it happened, so I mean, she was a bit… upset.”

“The poor girl,” Mercedes whispered, blinking rapidly. “This is unbelievable…”

The carriage door opened wider, and the grumpy driver motioned for them to leave.

“Carriages cannot go up the cliff,” he grunted. “You paid me to go from Atlasdam to Clearbrook, miss—if that’s not where you’re going, you either pay up or you get off here. I’m not taking any freeloaders on my way home.”

Mercedes gaped at him, then up onto the cliffs. It would be an hour walk to Bolderfall from where they were. It was summer, so night would come late; still, the sun looked like it sped through the afternoon. Going to Bolderfall itself seemed like a waste of time; his curiosity aside, Alfyn would suggest they keep walking along the road for a bit before taking shelter at some traveler’s respite.

Therion glared at the driver, resting his hand on the dagger that Alfyn had given back to him before they left. That didn’t exactly help the mood.

They should just get off, but Mercedes still wasn’t moving; she only rummaged through her pouch, fishing out two gold coins.

“I was saving this for my way home,” she said. “But take it, and please, bring us to—” She glanced over to Therion again, her eyes hiding a hint of fear. “—Northreach, was it?”

Therion nodded, still with his hand on the dagger. Alfyn opened his mouth to protest, but Mercedes lifted a finger and shushed him.

The driver huffed, but took the coins.

“You don’t have a lick of sense, miss,” he said. “I’ll take you anywhere but a town run by murderers, by Bifelgan’s knotted beard…”

Mercedes continued, again silencing Alfyn with a pointed look. “Then I’d like you to take us to wherever town is closest.”

The driver pocketed the gold, a small smile on his face like this was a joke only he understood. “Certainly, miss. I’ll take you to Stillsnow.”

He slammed the door shut, and Alfyn soon felt the tug of the carriage moving, before the ungodly rattling began again. When Alfyn got out to travel the world himself, he would _not_ go by cart or carriage, that was for certain.

Mercedes had leaned forward, bending her head and staring down into the floor. “Gods, I’m really doing this… I can’t… I can’t take it,” she whispered.

It may have been a few years since Alfyn had seen her, but he recognized her agonized grimace. He put a careful hand between her shoulders and stroked her. When Mercedes got nervous, she had trouble keeping her guts in check, but this kind of massage usually helped her—or it had when she’d been ten, anyway. Maybe that had all changed, but it didn’t hurt to try—anything to save her some discomfort.

“I’m really sorry,” Alfyn told her. “But ya know, you could go to Clearbrook and it’d be fine. I know Nina would be happy if there was somebody at home with her.”

Mercedes laughed, then breathed in through a sob. “Alfyn… you think I shushed you… for the fun of it?” She sat up straighter, wiping at her eyes. “No, no…absolutely not! My Zeph is…he’s in danger, and I’m just supposed to pretend he isn’t?”

“That’s not what I said—”

“And were you two just going to walk across two whole nations?”

Alfyn let go of her back, shrugging. “We’d hitch rides, was the plan. S’pose we succeeded?”

Mercedes shook her head, laughing again. “Sounds like you were just lucky, and me too. I’ll happily spend all I have if it helps Zeph come home safe. We were going to… He said he’d make us an outdoor luncheon beneath the Oak, and I think he was going to…” She trailed off, tears in her eyes again. Then she clenched her fists, shaking her head. “I’m not abandoning him. And I’m not abandoning you, either!”

Therion cocked a brow at them, and Alfyn almost expected him to break out into his usual tales of just how dangerous Northreach was and how dumb they were for even thinking they had a chance, but he stayed silent, moving his gaze to glare into the wall.

Mercedes breathed in deeply, then relaxed her shoulders. “I’m sorry, I’ve been rude,” she said and reached out a hand to Therion. “Mercedes. Pleased to meet you.”

Therion glowered but touched her hand briefly. “Alven,” he introduced himself. “Thanks for the ride.”

Alfyn frowned at him—he’d really go by fake names again, and one that was so similar to his own? It seemed to be a joke (and probably was, considering how pleased Therion looked with himself). Then again, maybe _Therion_ was a false name, too. Alfyn shouldn’t fool himself and think that he knew the guy. He’d felt comfortable with the thought back between the safe walls of his home, but out in the unknown, the thief felt much more like a stranger.

Mercedes, on the other hand, only nodded. “Don’t mention it. If Alfyn trusts you, I will too.”

That put a pause on Therion’s face, and he leaned back into his corner again. The carriage rattled on, and for once, Alfyn wasn’t too keen on small talk, either.


	7. Chapter 7

They stopped for the night in a small Woodlands village. Alfyn’s head felt like it was stuffed with a running heap of grain after the hours of carriage riding. His balance wouldn’t regain itself, despite his attempts to set his feet firmly on the ground.

Therion went straight for the tiny inn and Alfyn wobbled like a drunkard after him, which might have drawn them some unwanted attention. Honestly, Alfyn couldn’t really tell how it happened, because one moment he contemplated which kinds of herbs he’d concoct to alleviate his headache, the next, Therion had drawn his dagger at a group of hardy-looking people trying to get close to them.

Alfyn got inside the inn without incident, but Therion kept his dagger out. Mercedes purchased a separate room for herself, with some hesitation—something Alfyn couldn’t blame her for. He hadn’t really thought of what it would be like, sleeping somewhere unfamiliar like this, and together with a man that refused let go of this knife. His head didn’t allow for him to ponder it much, though.

By the time he’d closed the door behind them, Alfyn sat down on the nearest available stool and dug through his satchel for something that would ease his pounding temples. _Dustcloves_ would work nicely, if he ground it down into a fine powder and took some of their water—unless the inn had milk, which would bind it better, but he doubted they did.

Once he was done, he glanced at Therion again. “...You’re gonna put the knife away eventually, right?”

Therion didn’t look at him, only at the door, his shoulders tense. “I _could_ if you hadn’t marked us as prime targets, damn you. If I hadn’t been there, they would've plucked you like a chicken.”

Alfyn massaged his temples. “We only took a few steps between the carriage and the inn; I don’t see how’d they’d get the time to do that.”

Therion pointed a finger at him (not the dagger, which was polite of him), still with his eyes on the door. “Here’s the thing, man. Walls don’t protect you. They only provide a false sense of security and impede your vision.”

“They’ve worked fine for me so far,” Alfyn argued, even though he was honestly too tired to push this.

“That was when you weren’t on the road,” Therion snapped back. “Just say thank you and go to sleep.”

“Thank you?”

That seemed to be enough, because Therion grunted something in affirmation. Alfyn moved over to his bed, kicking off his shoes. Therion didn’t move to do the same, though.

“So, what, you’re not going to sleep?”

“Not a chance,” Therion grumbled. “I’ll catch up in the carriage tomorrow.”

“That don’t seem fair,” Alfyn mumbled, closing his eyes. “Ya wake me…when’s my turn…”

He heard Therion laugh, short and harsh. “You look like you’re being tortured when you’re in the carriage. I bet you couldn’t sleep in there even if it was rooted to the ground. Just—ugh, don’t _trust_ me, but—this is how thieves do it, all right? We cover each other’s weaknesses.”

He was quiet for a bit after that, like he contemplated what he’d said, and if he spoke again, it was beyond Alfyn to remember it. He was already drifting off.

\---

The carriage left again shortly after noon. Therion curled up into the corner of the carriage almost immediately and fell asleep without a word—he’d said a few things before that, though.

He’d let out a good morning to Alfyn when he’d awoken, sitting on the one stool in the room looking as keen and awake as he had the evening before, knife sheathed.

“I take it we weren’t robbed,” Alfyn greeted him back, and before Therion could spit something at him, he added: “Thanks, man.”

And he’d meant it. Weird how he’d slept soundly with an armed man in the same room, but if Therion wanted to harm him, he could’ve done so a long time ago.

“Just try to not do anything foolish while I’m out,” Therion had answered him.

The rattles of the carriage seemed to almost soothe him, because he looked like he was fully asleep in moments as soon as their journey to Stillsnow began anew.

The driver had called down to them that their trip would take until evening, and while it was near-impossible to talk in there, Alfyn still did his best. There was a lot to tell Mercedes, anyway, like how Therion had ended up in their river—which in turn became an hour-long discussion on how to best save drowned men.

Mercedes was no apothecary, but she knew more than most people, considering how well she knew both Zeph and Alfyn. Besides, she outwitted them on anything that wasn’t related to medicine and concoctions. She worked at the library of Atlasdam most days, a fine institution in the fanciest town for scholars and students to learn their craft that Alfyn honestly had a hard time wrapping his head around.

Giant marble arcs, thousand-year-old tomes, people crowding together and writing papers on their cave explorations or excavation of ruins or their research on the history of flour usage in the Highlands… It was far removed from anything to do with the small-scale stuff Alfyn usually saw.

He’d argued that the library might look like the Saintsbridge cathedral, but Mercedes claimed it wasn’t, the library was much denser. It didn’t make much sense, but Alfyn believed her.

Sitting like this, it was like they’d never been apart. They were kids again, knowing nothing but the magic of building forts out of sticks and bathing in ice-cold river water. A simpler time, but not one meant to last. Mercedes didn’t have an explorer’s heart, but a mind too big for a small village. Her parents had saved money for years to send her away, but the option had always existed for Alfyn and Zeph to move to Atlasdam as well.

Why Zeph hadn’t was obvious, considering Nina, and Alfyn had never had a desire for a scholarly education. It was really best this way, with Mercedes living a larger life than Alfyn and Zeph combined, but they’d missed her—Zeph more than Alfyn, but still.

Listening to her now, it was clear how well the life of a scholar suited her. Mercedes' mind encompassed the entire world.

As the carriage drummed along the road, she told him about the history of the Flatlands, the legends of the thirteen gods and how they varied between regions, the civil war that had raged twenty years ago in the Highlands, how quilting was becoming an art-form that the Coastland nobles fancied enough to pay ridiculous amounts of gold—but when Alfyn finally leaned his head back and asked her what she knew about Northreach, she quieted for a bit.

“Not much, honestly.” She furrowed her brow, then gestured vaguely at Therion’s sleeping figure, as to ask ‘ _doesn’t he know?_ ’

Alfyn smiled and shrugged, before making a so-so gesture with his hand. It felt a bit dirty to talk about Therion as the man himself had no say in the matter, and Mercedes clearly felt it too. She gave in with a little sigh.

“There are students from the Frostlands, of course,” she said. “I haven’t asked any specifics, but they say… it’s very cold in the winter, but decent in the summer, which sounds obvious. But…come to think of it, they’re all from Flamesgrace. I think I remember one of them saying that it’s the only town in the entire region that you should even consider visiting, that you should avoid the rest.”

Alfyn watched Therion’s shoulders rise and fall. His hair no longer covered his face, laying bare a nasty-looking scar over his left eye, and there were badly healed nicks on his throat and hands… The kind of injuries Northreach offered, apparently. He wished he could ask about them, but Therion had made his boundaries clear enough. There were some things Alfyn would never know, and that was fine.

As long as they got Zeph. Alfyn hadn’t really allowed himself to be worried, but looking at those scars, it was easy for his imagination to drift to dangerous places. He noticed his hands clenched tightly and tried to relax them.

“We don’t really have a plan,” Alfyn admitted to Mercedes. “At least, I don’t. I figured I’d stake out the town and break down a few windows and slip Zeph out from under the noses of the brigands. A bit optimistic, maybe… They might not even use windows in Northreach, for all I know.”

The carriage hit a large bump in the road. Therion stirred a little, grimacing. He’d been out like a light for more than a few hours, but without the sun, Alfyn didn’t know exactly how much time had passed. Therion seemed well-rested enough, though, because he stretched slightly and opened his eyes with a snap.

“Mornin’,” Alfyn greeted him, before another bump caused him to grab hold of the seat and curse under his breath.

When he regained himself, Therion was grinning at him. “Seems like we’ve left behind the good roads, so we must be close. Believe me, it only gets worse from here.”

“Have you been to Stillsnow, mister Therion?” Mercedes asked.

Therion frowned at her, then squinted at Alfyn. “You told her my name?”

“It might have slipped,” Alfyn said. “Sorry, man. I shouldn’t’ve.”

Therion simply shrugged. “Whatever. Yes, of course I’ve been, but not much. Influence can only reach so far, and it hasn’t been worth the trouble yet. Besides, it already has its own…businessmen at the helm.”

“Anything worth telling?” Mercedes asked. Her voice was polite and collected, but she bit her lip in nervous repetition.

Therion watched her silently, looking like he judged his words. “I think you’d be happier not knowing. All we have to do is keep our heads down and find another ride to Northreach, since this wuss won’t take us all the way.”

He knocked once on the front wall of the carriage for emphasis.

Just as he did, the carriage slowed. They must have reached their destination. Alfyn leaned over to push the door open, when the click of a lock sliding into place sounded through the wood. Alfyn pressed his hand against the door, but it didn’t budge.

“The hell?” he mumbled, getting to half-standing (the carriage didn’t allow for anything else), pressing harder.

“Why isn’t it opening?” Mercedes asked. She’d gotten to half-standing too, breathing fast. “Alfyn, what’s going on—?”

“Of course,” Therion mumbled, and Alfyn whipped his head around to look at him. He was sitting with his thumbs over the bridge of his nose. “Of-fucking-course.”

“D’ya know somethin’?” Alfyn asked him. Standing hunched like that and with the added stress of being crammed into this little space, his voice came out as a weird rumble.

“Not really,” Therion answered. “Just guessing. The driver obviously wasn’t fond of picking us up from the road. He didn’t do anything about it before, but now he locked the door because this town has a gaol. Sheriff’s corrupt to hell, se he’ll throw nobodies in there without asking twice, and as for—well—” He breathed deeply, just once, and didn’t continue.

Alfyn threw his satchel over his shoulder and rolled up his sleeves. “If that’s the case, then I’ll get us out. I’ll break down the door.”

“Won’t they hear us?” Mercedes added with an anxious look on Therion. She didn’t seem to know what was going on either.

“Not if we get it open my way,” Therion said and shooed them away from the door, squeezing through. He bent down over the slit on the opening side, shoved his dagger in there to pry it open a bit more. “A bolt,” he muttered. “No hinges on the inside. Not the first time he’s done stuff like this, I think.”

He continued muttering to himself as he worked, every second drawn out to eternity, but maybe it was just moments before the door popped open, and Therion slipped outside.

“Heads down,” he hissed at them, and Alfyn obeyed without thinking twice. He glanced back at Mercedes, saw her swipe her book into her arms and hop down after him. He ushered her forwards, casting a look over their surroundings.

Stillsnow offered nothing but complete darkness, no lights from any of the nearby houses. It was unnerving, to say the least—but the worst thing was the lack of silence. The wind howled like a desolate ghast. The summer of the Riverlands seemed to be nothing but a dream in this all-consuming night.

“Inn’s this way,” Therion continued, pointing at another dark house. He got to his toes and pried a window ajar.

“It’ll be fine,” Therion whispered as he held the window open, beckoning at Mercedes to jump inside. “This room is vacant.”

“How do you know?” Alfyn asked in a hiss, and Therion gave him an impatient glare.

“Think we have time for lessons? Just _get in_.”

Mercedes was better at breaking and entering than anticipated, crawling inside and putting her book on a desk. Alfyn did as well as he’d expected, which was to say, not good at all. He tumbled to the floor, his shoulder bumping into the frame of the bed below him, and if Mercedes hadn’t caught him, he’d have crashed head-first into a table with a cheap lamp. All their hopes of stealth would be gone in a moment.

The window closed behind him. Therion had just slipped inside quiet as a viper, clearly in his element. He brushed off his clothes and began rummaging through one of the drawers.

“What are you _doing_?” Mercedes whispered, and Therion looked up at her in slight surprise as though he’d momentarily forgotten she was there.

“Old habits,” he shrugged. “Nothing of value here, anyway. Like I said, it’s vacant. Otherwise, there’d be stuff by the door.”

Mercedes sat down on one of the beds, exhaling and placing her head in her hands. “Okay”, she whispered. “That’s something, at least. Just a quick night’s rest, then we slip back out and… get another carriage to Northreach.”

“Being hunted like a criminal complicates that,” Therion muttered into his scarf. “But sure. I’ve got nothing better.”

Alfyn put his satchel down. He was a bit befuddled by being in an inn room without paying, but it wasn’t the worst thing in the world. It was either this or getting frostbite in the woods – or in a gaol, which probably wrought frostbite in these parts too. The thought tempted him to swing by any prison cells, just to check if there was any need for an apothecary there, but he didn’t imagine they’d let him leave. And Zeph needed him. He couldn’t get distracted.

Just a quick rest, and they’d be on their way again as soon as there was daylight to lead them. Not a problem.

That was when the door opened. Alfyn managed to catch the twist of both determination and fear on Therion’s face, before his hand darted toward his belt.

“Hey, no, no knives—hey—” Alfyn caught his wrist and held up his other hand to show whoever entered that he was unarmed. “I’m just gonna explain this—”

“What in the _hells,_ ” a shrill voice greeted them as the door opened fully, and two furious green eyes set on Alfyn. The intruder looked like a noble lady, with jewelry in her ears and around her neck and dressed in a warm quality tunic, but there was nothing noble in how her hand darted to her belt. The moment after, light reflected in a silver blade— _not_ Therion’s.

“Woah now,” Alfyn said, backing away a step. “Woah. Easy there.”

Another lady limped inside and came to stand in the doorway too, blood thick and frozen and lumpy on her sleeve, a poorly bandaged gash beneath. Hours old with some clotting, but there was not enough pressure applied, so it just kept oozing. An animal bite by the looks of it, nasty thing—

The arrow aimed for Alfyn’s head was a secondary thing he noticed. Funny, that.

“I shallen not hesitate,” the lady with a gash in her arm warned in a melodic and unfamiliar accent, her gaze set on Therion’s bitter face.

“No sudden movements,” Therion muttered—clearly furious about being stopped from drawing his knife, and Alfyn couldn’t exactly blame him. Might have been a mistake to hold him back.

“What are you doing with that woman?” the furious lady with a knife yelled. “I should strike you down where you stand—!”

“Waitwaitwait,” Mercedes blurted and got to standing, and the arrow pointed toward her head instead. She slowly sat down, hands trembling. “They’re just helping me.”

“That’s what they always say,” knife-lady scoffed, not relaxing her stance in the slightest. Her eyes darted between them, narrow and merciless.

“It’s true though,” Therion said through gritted teeth. “We’re not here to hurt anyone. Wrong room, is all.”

“Like hell,” knife-lady spat. “Door’s locked and we have the key. And it’s not like it _matters_ if you’re telling the truth because you’ve brought a young lady to Stillsnow and I can see _right through you_.”

Alfyn frowned. He didn’t get it.

He wasn’t sure if Mercedes did either, but she had started to breathe faster.

“I’m sorry”, she hyperventilated. “I’m sorry, we’ll leave—we thought this room was empty and we just needed a place to hide, we’re not criminals, it’s all a misunderstanding, and—and I swear if you hurt these men, I’ll scream.”

There were tears in her eyes, and Alfyn wished he could put a hand between her shoulders without risking an arrow through the teeth.

Speaking of arrows, the lady with a bow wasn’t looking too good. Her arm trembled slightly, and the gash kept oozing. The way she clenched her jaw gave Alfyn the feeling she’d rather let the arrow fly than lower her bow, but she also seemed reluctant to kill anyone at the drop of a hat. Knife-lady was obviously not held back, though.

“Now now,” Alfyn said with his best soothing voice (the same one he used when he was about to remove ticks from frightened children). “I getcha, we’ve kind of broken in without asking, but there’s no need for stabbing and jabbing, all right? I’m Alfyn, and I’m a travelin’ apothecary. That’s Mercedes, and she’s a scholar but she’s from the same backwater town as me—Clearbrook, if you’ve heard of it.”

“I have,” the lady with a gash said, her bow trembling. “Fine fish, yonder.”

“We don’t make conversation with random burglars, H’aanit,” knife-lady said pointedly.

“And this here is Therion,” Alfyn concluded with a gentle nudge. “He’s helping me track down my friend, who got kidnapped by _actual_ burglars. We were on our merry way when the carriage driver who got us here left us locked inside and went to fetch the sheriff. We had to hide for a bit, is all.”

Knife-lady cocked a brow. “And what, the driver went to fetch the sheriff for _no reason_? You’re leaving out some pretty important details, scruffy boy.”

“Leave him be,” Therion sighed. “He’s too nice to understand what’s going on. The driver wanted us locked up on suspicion without grounds, that’s true, but the main reason would probably be because he was bringing a young unknowing lady to _Stillsnow_.”

Alfyn still had no idea what any of that meant, but it had knife-lady’s frown ease slightly, accompanied by an animalistic, deep-throated growl. It took him a moment to realize it was not from her, but from something that moved in the shadows of the hallway beyond. They should probably close the door.

“Either way,” Alfyn said hastily, “we’ll be out of here in a jiffy if you let us—but I’d like to have a look on that gash ‘o yours, first. I’m an apothecary, like I said—”

“We brought our own bandages,” knife-lady snapped quickly, but there was another growl, and finally, H’aanit lowered her bow.

“Peace, Primrose. I shallen take a healer’s offer. Linde has not attacked them yet, and if she doth trust them, so shall I.”

As she spoke, a large snow-leopard slithered inside, past the two women, and regarded Alfyn with cunning, yellow eyes.

“Huh,” Alfyn said, because there wasn’t much else to say. Perhaps this was custom in the Frostlands.

Knife-lady—or Primrose, as her name apparently was—did not sheath her blade, but she let it fall to the side with one last eye on Therion.

Mercedes had grown pretty pale as the leopard stepped closer and rubbed its head on the bedframe, and Alfyn could finally put a hand on her shoulder.

H’aanit staggered toward the bed, face grim as she sat down and stared into Alfyn’s face, scrutinizing him. Her eyes were light grey; a distant color, like autumn stars, and her gaze was eerie because of it. She arced a brow at him, tugging at her makeshift bandage.

“Shallen I remove this myself?”

That pulled Alfyn out of his stupor. The situation was increasingly weird for every moment that passed, but he had something to focus on, someone to help. Everything else could be pushed to the side when that was the case.

“Nope, nope, I’ve got it,” he said and leaned forwards with his cleanest scissors, snipping the makeshift bandage clean off.

Primrose leaned against the wall behind H’aanit, her arms crossed. Still with her dagger out. Alfyn could see Therion drum his fingers on his own blade, nailing Primrose with his gaze.

“I won’t hesitate either, you know,” Therion stated darkly. “You’re standing too close. Back off.”

“Trust me,” Primrose glared sarcastically. “If I wanted either of you hurt, you would be gutted already.”

“I trust you as far as I can spit.”

“And I stand however close I damn please.”

The tension of the room could be cut with a knife, and Alfyn grimaced. “I haven’t got the materials for stitching a bunch’a stab wounds, okay? Easy there.”

A loud purring came from behind him, and H’aanit chuckled to herself like the friction between Primrose and Therion was barely noticeable. Alfyn afforded a glance over his shoulder, saw Mercedes hesitantly scratching the snow leopard behind its ear.

“Primrose, sheathe thine blade,” H’aanit laughed. “’Tis obvious Linde sensen no threat. Nor do I.”

“To be fair, you’re the one with a wound,” Primrose grumbled, but thankfully, she obeyed and put her dagger away.

That made it far easier to breathe, and Alfyn gently prodded H’aanit’s arm, wiping away the blood that kept seeping out of it.

The gash had obvious punctuation-wounds, like those from a cat, but there was a considerate amount of tear too as was usually the case with wolf-bites. Then again, its edges were sharp and ugly, like boar teeth... It wasn’t clear what kind of beast had wrought it. Antiseptic corrosives would kill most infection, but still, it didn’t hurt to know.

“Was it, uh, your leopard who gave you this?”

“Linde?” H’aanit winced as though offended. “Fie, no.”

Therion had backed to the other side of the room, glancing out the window before slamming the covers shut again. “Was it a human, then? And, more importantly, are they coming after you?”

Primrose barked a short laugh. “If it was that simple, we’d have no trouble.”

Alfyn poured a few drops from his antiseptic, the blood foaming and settling for a brief moment, before the bleeding began with newfound vigour. As expected. H’aanit let out a small groan, and the purring behind Alfyn stopped, replaced by a deep growl.

H’aanit, despite beads of sweat on her brow, raised her free hand. “’Tis fine, my friend.”

The growling stopped, something Alfyn merely noted. Now that he was working on patching up a wound, it would take more than the threat of a beast to distract him.

“Y’all keep talkin’,” he said. “I’m gonna have to cut away fringing, and it might hurt a little.”

“Cut?” Primrose echoed suspiciously. “Aren’t you going to stitch it?”

“No ma’am,” Alfyn answered, swiping painkilling ointment around the gash (it’d do little good, but better than nothing). “Never stitch a bite wound. It’ll fester for sure.”

“And why the cutting?”

“The fringes aren’t gonna get ‘nough blood when they’re damaged like this, see,” Alfyn said and lifted one of the tears of skin hanging by thin strands. “That means it’s not gonna heal, so it’ll rot, and rot festers. You’ve gotta clean the wound. Just doing my best to keep out infection, ma’am.”

Alfyn didn’t mind it much when people questioned him like this—it was part of the trade. Worried parents hovered over their children and vice versa, wanted to know the _what_ ’s and the _why_ ’s. Primrose seemed satisfied enough by his answers, and H’aanit showed no ounce of fear as Alfyn brought out his scalpel.

“So, uhm…” Mercedes’s voice was hesitant. “If it helps to talk… Could you tell us what you were doing? Is that all right?”

H’aanit gave her a serious look. “We battled a dragon living in the woods. I am a huntress, and ‘tis been my quarry.”

Therion rolled his eyes. “Oh, _sure_. A _dragon_ bit you.”

“Aye,” H’aanit answered without the hint of a joke. Alfyn didn’t care to indulge—he cut as carefully as he could, dabbing with the tollenberry leaves he’d gathered the day before to stop the bleeding.

“Dragons,” Mercedes whispered. “You saw one? Truly?”

Primrose sighed through her nose. “Does it matter?”

Mercedes let out a small squeak. “I mean, scholarly speaking, they’re as rare as they come—a friend of mine in Atlasdam is studying their anatomy, and if I could bring its skull with me, they would be so grateful—”

H’aanit winced as Alfyn prodded at one of the deeper structures laying bare in the wound, then shook her head. “There aren no body,” she protested. “’Twould be a shame to slay such a creature, and I haven a scale from its hide, ‘twas what I needen.”

“Dragon scales,” Alfyn smiled to himself and packed the wound with clean bandaging. “They’ve got some interesting properties, huh? I read they can stop a full-on seizure.”

Primrose scoffed again. “Don’t get any ideas, _apothecary_.”

“Ideas what?”

“Don’t mind him,” Therion butted into their conversation. “Listen, lady, if you don’t want us stealing that dragonscale you’ve got on you, put it somewhere it isn’t so bloody noticeable.”

Primrose’s hand flew to her dagger again, her gaze burning. “Oh, so now I know where your gaze _wanders_ —!"

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Therion barked back, his face red. “It’s just a warning.”

“There we go,” Alfyn broke in, tying the final knot on H’aanit’s bandage, happily interrupting another eruption of tension between the two dagger-wielders. “It’ll scar, I’m ‘fraid, but you’ll be right as rain soon!”

H’aanit gave him a small smile, her gaze as eerie as before. In his short time in the little Woodlands village, Alfyn had felt like the trees had eyes and were staring at him—kind of had the same sensation from looking at H’aanit.

The silence that followed was pressing, only broken by Linde’s purring.

“So, I guess we’ll get outta your hair,” Alfyn began. “There are other places to hide in this town, I’m sure.”

To his surprise, Primrose’s harsh face softened a little. “What, you… no, are you serious?” She frowned again. “Listen, you’ve been lucky to find people who aren’t going to slit your throats and take miss Mercedes to the Obsidian Parlor, and you’re going to go out there and test your luck _again_?”

Alfyn liked to think himself as able to pick up on the tiniest of social ques, every shift of discomfort in his patients, but whatever came out of Primrose’s mouth was a complete mystery.

“I thought we weren’t welcome, I mean we did kinda—break in—?”

Primrose waved a hand with a quick look on H’aanit. “I don’t have to _like_ it,” she said. “But I’m not letting you leave. No one deserves the horrors a Stillsnow night can bring. Not even your rude friend.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Therion snapped.

“But I won’t,” Mercedes said, right after, and she looked apprehensively at Alfyn.

He cleared his throat. “No, yeah, I agree with Mercedes. It’s nice of you to offer, really ‘preciate it.”

“Yes,” Mercedes smiled at H’aanit, then at Primrose. “Thank you… for your kindness.”

Therion plopped down on a stool in the corner, crossing his arms. He’d stay too, then, but he certainly didn’t look happy about it.

“A favor for a favor, is that not so?” H’aanit smiled and cautiously rolled her shoulder. “Thou hast a skilled healer’s hand.”

“Shucks,” Alfyn smiled back, then he cleared his throat again. “Okay, so… How’s this going to work? There’s five of us—six, I guess, with, uh, Linde—and two beds. Got no problem sleepin’ on the floor, myself!”

“Same here,” Mercedes chimed in. “It’d be no trouble!”

“Aren’t you sweet,” Primrose said, her smile dazzling and powerful—and not genuine. That much, Alfyn could gather, she wasn’t a _complete_ mystery. Except she dug around in her bag, putting down a large pouch and bringing out tiny slithers of fabric; and he couldn’t gather what that was for.

“I’ll stick to my plans, H’aanit,” she said. “I’d hoped to change in here, but the tavern’s backstage works just as well.”

It was only then that Alfyn realized that what Primrose had scooped up into her hands was supposed to be _clothes_ , but he didn’t see how it could count as such. Most of it was slit through, no doubt to reveal… a lot. Which just left him just as confused, but with cheeks burning.

H’aanit did not look as though this was anything out of the ordinary, though. She gave Primrose one of her eerie glances.

“Thou does not needen me?”

“I’m sure. Hold the fort.”

“Wait,” Mercedes gasped. “You’re leaving? I thought you said Stillsnow was…um…?”

“I know what I’m doing,” Primrose winked at her. “Just going out there to loosen some tongues.”

In the next moment, she was gone, and she locked the door behind her. Alfyn found himself staring after her, still trying to figure this puzzle out.

“Taken the corner,” H’aanit prompted. “Doe not mind Linde’s presence.”

Alfyn didn’t bother to object. Strange how exhausted he was, even though he’d just been sitting in a carriage all day. Hearing from every other person surrounding him that there was mortal peril for anyone who so much as breathed in this town was a bit… much.

So maybe wiggling into the corner, back rested against the wall, wasn’t so bad. Even with a snow leopard stretching and laying down on top of his feet, its tail whipping. It may look peaceful, but she was obviously watching them.

He really didn’t mind. Mercedes mirrored him, not more than an arm’s length away, while Theiron glared from his stool on the other side of the room.

“There’s room for you too,” Alfyn said.

“No thank you,” Therion grumbled.

“’Twould antagonize Linde if thou keepest thine distance,” H’aanit pointed out. “And ‘twould antagonize myself thus. Betrayen not mine trust, rouge.”

There was definitely a threat in there, and Therion caught it as well. He huffed and slid down in the corner too, his arms angrily crossed.

“I should’ve just left,” he muttered. “Should’ve just let you fend for yourself, damnit.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad you didn’t,” Alfyn grinned at him. “Without you, I’d still be walkin’ through the Cliftlands. I owe you one.”

Therion stiffened a little, then shook his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

Maybe it was just his imagination, but it didn’t sound that snarky or angry. Just stating a fact.

“So are you,” Alfyn laughed quietly. “But in a good way, I suppose.”

Therion didn’t answer. His arms were still crossed tightly, his face half burrowed into his scarf and shrouded by his hair, but Alfyn caught his eyes widen in surprise.

They didn’t speak after that, the rhythmic purring of a leopard the only sound in the room.

It was not where Alfyn had thought he’d find himself, but he was much closer to finding Zeph, and that was what mattered.

They’d see each other again, soon. He was sure of it. 


End file.
